King of Bash

Best Films of 2011

2011-12-22T06:47:00.000-08:00

Tough year to judge, but I'll judge it anyway . . .

Top Ten Best Films of 2011:

1. "The Artist"

Best movie I’ve seen in quite a while, one of the few movies I’ve seen that received a thunderous applause when it ended. A must-see in the theater, and dare I say, a perfect movie that’s funny, melodramatic, and profound. It’s simply a remarkable achievement in filmmaking that’s incredibly rewarding. Jean Dujardin, and Uggie, might be my new favorite actors.

2. "Drive"

A meditation so hypnotic I downloaded the soundtrack the next day. Methodical in its pacing with sudden bursts of violence, this trip takes you to unexpectedly tumultuous places. Dark and exciting while deceptively simple, Nicholas Winding Refn is able to weave one of richest tapestries of a seedy Los Angeles with an 80’s movie kind of feel to boot. Check out his "Pusher" trilogy and "Bronson." Albert Brooks . . . tour de force!

3. "The Tree of Life"

Gorgeous, riveting, and at turns maddening, I couldn’t explain to you what the movie is about, but hey, I like pretty pictures, and on that note this luminous movie delivered tenfold. I can overlook Terrence Malick’s obvious lyrical pretentiousness because many moments in the film moved me deeply. A marvelous year for Jessica Chastain, who will surely lose her anonymity.

4. "Midnight in Paris"

A great time-travel movie, disarming and often very funny. I like movies where I find myself smiling all the way through. Far removed from "Law & Order: L.A.," the real scene stealer is Corey Stoll as Ernest Hemingway, who deserves serious awards consideration. Plus Kathy Bates is always good when she isn't naked in a hot tub. Arguably his best film since "Match Point," this is one of my favorite Woody Allen movies, and maybe even Mia Farrow would like it.

5. "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

After seeing the original, I knew what to expect. A stylish, taut thriller, this sweeping work is a triumph in acting, writing, and direction, along with a highly effective score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. Can't decide which version I liked better. The daring Rooney Mara delivers what can only be described as a very brave performance.

6. "The Skin I Live In"

Apart from "Shame," this was the most disturbing and unsettling film I saw all year, courtesy of Pedro Almodovar at the top of his game. An unflinching work of art with darkly comic touches, it transcends the horror genre in a way I never imagined. I've been a big fan of Elena Anaya since "Talk to Her" and "Mesrine," and her haunting work here is amazing. Antonio Banderas . . . tour de force!

7. "Moneyball"

Living in the Bay Area at the time brought the story closer to home. Compelling with fully-realized characters, something that can only come from a fascinating true story. Pitt does tremendous work here, and Jonah Hill surprised me in his second to last fat performance.

8. "The Descendants"

A quality blend of comedy and drama with engaging performances, Shailene Woodley being the revelation. Quite rare when we really care about what will happen to the characters. A very satisfying film, one with enduring wit and an insightful look at imperfect people when faced with grief. Has Alexander Payne made a bad movie? I still like "Election" and "Sideways" better.

9. "The Ides of March"

Saw "Farrugut North" on stage with Scarlett, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. Since I continually struggle with my love/hate relationship with politics, this movie was right up my alley. The last 30 minutes of the film were tacked on by George Clooney, giving us a bold plot device and the happy ending that the play never had.

10. "Take Shelter"

Michael Shannon should be noted as one of the best actors working today. His gripping and powerful portrayal of a man seemingly losing his mind never loses steam to the very last frame. Who else can capture the paranoia of an impending apocalypse with more emotion? Shannon's subtleties with the craft are savored.

The Very Long List of Honorable Mentions

"13 Assassins" I like when domes are lopped off with regularity.

"Attack the Block" great combination of horror and comedy, like "Shaun of the Dead"

"Carnage" the tulips are on me, a finally confined Polanski . . great acting

"Cave of Forgotten Dreams" another engrossing documentary from Werner Herzog

"Hanna" highly entertaining, even though I can’t pronounce the lead’s name

"Hugo" the marvel of filmmaking with Scorsese in top-form . . loved it

"Kill the Irishman" funny movie, and the effectiveness of car bombs can’t be disputed

"Martha Marcy May Marlene" the good looking Olsen sister knocked it out the park

"My Week With Marilyn" Michelle Williams can act

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes" thrilling when CGI apes emote so well

"Senna" I remember watching the great Ayrton Senna race as a kid

"Shame" spare and startling like "Hunger," I won’t see this movie again

"The Debt" liked the original a lot as well

"The Devil's Double" that psychotic degenerate Uday had it coming

"The Future" almost cracked the top ten, Miranda July can do no wrong

"The Help" I see a bright future for this on Lifetime/Oxygen

"The Iron Lady" Meryl Streep can do no wrong either

"The Muppets" feels like old friends coming back to town

"Thor" so many haters, but I really liked it

"Tyrannosaur" can a very serious drinking problem lead to redemption?

"War Horse" the swelling John Williams score tried very hard to make me cry

"Warrior" a movie to make men cry . . I, alas, did not

"We Need To Talk About Kevin" really made me want to have children

"X-Men: First Class" Fassbender should have his own Nazi hunting movie

"Young Adult" made me feel really good inside, quality Patton Oswalt

Other Achievements

Best Actor: Jean Dujardin - "The Artist"

Best Actress: Jessica Chastain - "The Tree of Life"/"The Help"/"Take Shelter"/"The Debt"

Best Suppporting Actor: Albert Brooks - "Drive"

Best Supporting Actress: Berenice Bejo - "The Artist"

Best Director: Michael Hazanavicius - "The Artist"

Best Screenplay: Alexander Payne, Nat Faxon, & Jim Rash - "The Descendants"

Best Foreign Language Film: "The Skin I Live In"

Best Documentary: "Cave of Forgotten Dreams"

Best Cinematography: "The Tree of Life"

Best Score: "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

Best Animated: "Arthur Christmas"

Best Costume Design: "Midnight in Paris"

Best Make-Up: "J. Edgar" (yikes, almost made my worst movie list)

Best Art Direction: "Hugo"

Best Special Effects: "Rise of the Planet of the Apes"

The Worst Movies of the Year

"Sucker Punch": Loud, obnoxious, and incomprehensible does not make a good film. Zach Snyder’s bombast needs to be kept under control or he'll keep turning in turkeys like this convoluted mess. It's a misfire where alleged female empowerment never felt so crudely debasing.

"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy": Nearly put me to sleep. The biggest complaint I read was that it’s confusing and tough to keep track of exactly what's going on. The big problem for me was boredom. I fear "Smiley's People."

"A Dangerous Method": zzzzzzzzzz . . . this one did put me and my companion to sleep a couple times. Keira Knightley is gravely miscast, a truly mortifying performance from the bizarre get-go which gives way to unintentional humor. As a big David Cronenberg fan, hurts to say it’s the kind of movie that high-brow imbeciles will embrace in a feeble attempt to impress others by their own shallow intellectuality, trying to be so cool. I like philosophy and psychology, and I hated this. Cronenberg's worst movie since "M. Butterfly."

"The Hangover Part 2": A shell of the first one, great box office will surely lead to a third. I doubt any sane woman would overlook her fiance having sex with a transsexual right before their wedding day. Oops, did I spoil it?

"The Change-Up": Brave performance by Leslie Mann. Her acting is made majestic by the continual disrobing.

"Bridesmaids": At least I know I’m not the only one that was disappointed after fatuous publicity. I have yet to climb onto the Kristen Wiig bus, doubt I ever will. For me, Melissa McCarthy was the movie's one bright spot.

"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows- Part 2": Thank God this is finally over, and this entry didn’t deliver in the way the hype machine promised. The series kind of went awry for me after the magical "Prisoner of Azkaban."

And the very worst, maybe ever . . .

"Bucky Larson- Born to be a Star": In my humble opinion, the TV spots were much better, and a lot funnier, than the moronic and mentally offensive final product. Probably sat on the shelf for a while. Although my view on the commercials stray greatly from the nearly common belief held by many that it was the most annoying ad campaign ever conceived, I admit heavy bias. My boy Peter Dante should've been in the movie more, as you can tell here:

Dugout Club And Other Observations

2011-08-27T16:41:00.000-07:00

Let's start with the spectacular scenery from an awesome suite at Mandalay Bay!

I also captured an absolutely breathtaking view from the balcony at Mix Lounge, a quality capper to any glorious Las Vegas night.

Now, seriously, what's the first thought that comes to mind when you see this (and for extra points, it can't contain the word douche)?

I wonder if the honorable Frederic Prinz von Anhalt lives on Dicks.

I saw L.A. "legend" Angelyne at Pavillions, looking exhaustively through the cantaloupes and watermelons. I took a picture of her flashy ride out front.

Her star will never fade away. Sylvester Cunningham has always been a big fan of her modestly voluptuous billboards, which I don't see around town anymore. Sylvester has recently vested a lot of interest in our friendship by trying to ostensibly turn me into a Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim fan, a true fanatic like himself. He gave me a hat.

Here's a picture of Sylvester with his ghost friend.

Sickening enough to think there are ghosts, more sickening is the Domino's Pizza I had delivered to Scarlett's pad. It was an absolute embarrassment. What I saw when I opened the box was merely an abomination in apathetic production and poor construction. It looked like someone barfed on one side and pooped on the other.

"Tell us how we did." What the hell is that? I would've waited longer and paid more for a pie that didn't make me and my girl retch. What a disgusting, appalling excuse for a pizza, certainly not something to be proud of. Freshest ingredients, whatever, that came out of a faulty conveyor belt or worse. Pepe's hands weren't touching it according to the Domino's Pizza Tracker. Nice going Domino's, thanks for ruining my pizza. "Help us get better?" Maybe try to make a real pizza next time, stop hiring people in need of a serious Lasik overhaul. I'm really not an angry person, partially because I have an new friend, Penelope Ann Killer, Penny for short.

She's the cutest Pembroke Welsh corgi puppy west of the Mississippi, and this bitch loves taking walks on the beach.

It pains me intensely to look at her. She's the coolest triumph in Scarlett's history, other than winning "Best Costume" on Halloween at Del's Saloon.

Unicorns and glitter, no bugs in the teeth! I firmly believe that Flo, the iconic Progressive Insurance girl, is everyone's favorite TV commercial character, and Scarlett happens to be my favorite person. The two combined are unstoppable! Doesn't happen to me all the time. The tramps who dressed up as sluts for Halloween got to eat their own hearts out on the power of insurance. And we're walking . . . and we're walking . . .

I recently dressed up like it was Halloween when I went to see House of Pain at the House of Blues.

Robert Davi gave me props on the hat when I got on his elevator to the Foundation Room. He's in my all-time favorite Christmas movie, "Die Hard," and played the James Bond villain Sanchez in "Licence To Kill."

Like me, he's a big Los Angeles Dodgers fan who absolutely despises the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. As proof of my borderline religious love of sorts, here's a wonderful montage of pictures from the Dugout Club seats I've been frequently spotted at.

Never gets old, and to provide an example of how spoiled I've become, when friends call with tickets I have to ask where the seats are before committing. I've sadly declined all offers. Can't sleep on the luxurious luxury box either, as long as they keep bringing in the overpriced six-packs of Heineken at a steady clip.

They usually do. Aside from choice seating, the best thing about Dugout Club is the food. During most day games, the coolest pony-tailed omelette chef prepares the incredible, dare I say best, omelette I've ever had, the "Everything."

Wayne agrees, and it's convenient that you can eat at the seats. The amazing Philly cheese steak in-seat special often echoes in mind whenever thoughts of culinary grandeur float around in my brain. Few examples of yumminess compare to the pho bar.

Actually, there's a long list of Dugout Club faves. When you eat a lot, like I do, you need the option of all-you-can-eat Dodger Dogs with chili, root beer floats, with a varying menu I've experienced that includes carved ribe-eye, Santa Maria tri-tip roast, BBQ beef brisket, brown sugar and mustard crusted prime rib, garlic studded sirloin, citrus roasted/maple glazed turkey, chipotle crusted pork, seared rockfish with mango salsa, herb roasted lamb, Greek sliders, Buffalo sliders, Vindaloo sliders, crispy baked basa sandwiches, Cuban tortas, gyros, brats, picnic basket chicken, apple smoked tubesteaks, chorizo, Kung Pao chicken, jerk chicken, BBQ oyster shooters, seafood stew (with shrimp, scallops, muscles, clams, salmon), teriyaki salmon skewers, clam bake, bahn mi, spinach-artichoke mac-n-cheese, sweet potato fries, hot wings, chicken strips, loaded nachos, taco bar, baked potato bar, crepe bar, waffle bar, and ice cream sandwiches with top notch chocolate chip or oatmeal cookie. Had the salad once. Think the other L.A. team (in name only by questionable circumstance) has anything that could remotely touch the brilliance of Dugout Club? I love the Dodgers! The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim can shove it. No offense to Sylvester, I understand that nobody's perfect. But I like Orange County a lot, so this is the tentative site of my future home in Newport Beach.

And when I'm there, late at night, I'll continue dancing in the pale moonlight.

Still the King of Bash!

2010-09-18T00:52:00.001-07:00

Everything's been fine. No complaints. This blackout drunk photo may bring me out of retirement. Need heavier lures though.

No Fables

2009-01-30T10:29:00.000-08:00

Last weekend bordered on amazing, built from the motivation that I could certainly try to have more fun than Ray Argyle. In order to make my wishes come to vivid fruition, I enlisted the candid insights of Holly Paige. I was in rare form, cheering the Lakers while adorned in finagled boa and The Hat’s lost hat.

Holly, a sight for sore eyes since her bold move to D.C., confided in me that the many ills of the world which pollute psyches are related to not having fun, or something like that. I don't really recall any context because, of course, around that time I became blackout drunk. That was the same evening The Wolf finally showed me how he really felt about my energetic presidential campaign.

I was unhindered in pushing boundaries, so I took my first attempt of making a cheers while taking a photo.

I think blackout drunk never felt better. Earlier in the night I was with Roxie sporting wide red eyes.

We reminisced about the glory we’ve shared over the years, even managing to finally get a good laugh about one of the worst nights ever, the debacle at L.A.X., the time when all futures were determined at random with spite.

Peacock, who has since gone into hiding, was my last picture taken inside the venue, which also assisted the security detail in identifying me moments later.

As an avid fan of aimless prancing, ten minutes of mixing it up on the dance floor is far from satisfying.

We never made it out to see Hyper Crush, choosing instead to be faced with ludicrous cab debauchery, mainly their right to refuse service to anyone. The peanut gallery of photographers found humor in what was otherwise a rather dire stamp on an evening filled with untapped potential.

While some haters can find amusement in another group's peril, that night proved, once again, that some forms of attempted Bashing can fail miserably. Upon contemplating the peaks and valleys of which fun can often hinge on, I called in support from Orange County in the form of Sylvester Cunningham, whose affinity for Captain Morgan instantly catapulted him into the upper echelon of Bashing lore.

Known to all close friends as Sly, he’s waged battles on many fronts, proudly representing what’s in all our best interests. Like most Bashers celebrated as a part of The Inner Circle, he seems to have his way with the ladies.

I was graced with his acquaintance through my lovely First Lady Scarlett O’Connell.

Apart from being a member of the American Society for Enology and Viticulture, Sly is a founding father of the Chawhee Party Klan, a group of Bashers whose influence has spread cancerously throughout the United States. Like true warriors, we’ve been to Del’s Saloon for breakfast in the past.

That particular day we went to Venice Beach to marvel at the ridiculous spectacle known as professional wrestling, a "sport" lunatics commonly believe to be real.

Since I was going to Del's Saloon for two nights in a row, I wanted to roll incognito to our meeting, low key, not to be noticed by anyone in particular, just simply blending in.

I didn’t expect that our reunion would also feature the elusive Dante, a sighting that initially scared the bejesus out of Amaury Guerrero.

The trouble caused from the cameo couldn’t be more disturbing. My already high level of drinking ability instantly became elevated while my speech became more incoherent than normal. Thankfully, Scarlett was there to temper the proceedings, although not very much.

Adding insult to injury, Priscilla Centinela, with her Long Island iced teas, egged us on to Bash harder.

Glasses were raised in triumph, for it’s a rarity that we managed to all be in the same room together.

The Bashers were justly reunited, all in the name of fun, although Ray still laughs at all of us. The next day I felt like a million dollars.

Top 28 Albums of 2008

2009-01-07T11:35:00.000-08:00

Another great year of music, a testament to the violent fluctuations within the top ten. It was incredibly tough to make a list, but these all remain in heavy rotation.

#1 Girl Talk, Feed the Animals
#2 Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes
#3 Portishead, Third
#4 Danny!, And I Love H.E.R.
#5 TV on the Radio, Dear Science
#6 Santogold, Santogold
#7 Beck, Modern Guilt
#8 Ratatat, LP3
#9 AC/DC, Black Ice
#10 The Bug, London Zoo
#11 Robyn, Robyn
#12 Neon Neon, Stainless Style
#13 Little Jackie, The Stoop
#14 MGMT, Oracular Spectacular
#15 Arctic Monkeys, Favourite Worst Nightmare

Honorable mentions:

-Adele, 19
-Al Green, Lay It Down
-Deerhunter, Microcastle
-Hyper Crush, The Arcade
-Kaiser Chiefs, Off With Their Heads
-Kings of Leon, Only By Night
-Lupe Fiasco, The Cool
-Lykki Li, Youth Novels
-M83, Saturdays=Youth
-Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!
-Q-Tip, The Renaissance
-Racontours, Consolers of the Lonely
-Starf**ker, Starf**ker

I Have More Fun Than You

2008-12-31T11:00:00.000-08:00

Throughout my extensive travels exploring the depths of humanity and its mysterious origins, I happily reunited with avant-guard musician Ray Argyle, who constantly confides that he has more fun than me.

“I have more fun than you,” he always tells me as matter of fact. I should come to accept it.

Apart from tours to remote island locations for video shoots, Ray recently went to some art show Bash in downtown with hipsters and music till dawn with Serena.

They both enjoyed the spontaneous art demonstrations.

The work done over time was impressive. Motivated artists were around just about every corner, concentrating on their original creations while lost from society at large.

People were tripping out on Aphex Twin, so he saw some weird things that night.

He was bored with a high powered camera, so he started making his own spontaneous art digitally.

His photography skills brought much rejoice from revelers like Serena. Even though she’s a good friend, he told her that if they ever did anything, like mess around, he wouldn’t be against it, although maybe it was the scenery and the booze talking.

Ray frequents high end clubs in Hollywood, the kind that stock talentless acts for the sake of the lowest common denominator. Unlike many Los Angeles musicians, he supports many local singers, like this particular floozy.

At least he never has to buy his own $10 drink. Even Harper O’Hara is guilty of buying him Jager bombs over games of pool at Del’s Saloon.

She once said that the only reason to have a boyfriend is to secure consistent sexual favors. Rumor has it she moved to Vancouver. She’ll certainly miss Ray's five dogs, all of whom can sit outside his local pizzeria without moving from their territorial spot.

The pack, which consists of Leo, Ginger, Bob, Barney, and Buster from left to right, brings excitement to his every waking day, especially the way they take care of each other in his absence. Whenever Ray leaves town with the band, his neighbor Ambrosia takes care of the mangy mongrels. She often comes over for four in the morning Guitar Hero.

The simple fact is he thrusts himself onto the scene fearless, sort of like how The Hat likes jumping off diving boards dry and hatless.

Considering Ray's many interests, like writing poetry, he enjoys long walks on the beach, often with the loveliest of the lovelies looking right back.

I think he laughs at all of us.

Scorched Earth Theory

2008-11-21T06:01:00.000-08:00

Sadly, I lost my bid for President of the United States. Also, my beloved Oakland Raiders are failing miserably as a team and an organization.

Thankfully, I remain in good spirits with a sharpened shank, ready to bury it in dimwits who cross the line with naively crafted insults. Above all, I still manage to throw around the occasional joke, yet at this point all the laughter seems merciful. Roxie tells me I need to relax.

But how can I relax, knowing that our country is on an unpredictable path that leads to... what exactly? To cheer me up, Roxie recently trimmed my mop of hair, and she definitely would’ve made me look great when meeting foreign dignitaries. Still stuck in the groove of campaigning, I met with Ronda, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Treasury. A graduate of Northwestern, she has studied the intricacies of our fragile economy, recently telling soon to retire Tom Florence of Jasper, Indiana, “If you’re going to cash in your 401K, I suggest investing in cigarettes and alcohol.”

Of course, she probably wouldn’t have made it through the confirmation process, especially since this particular photo leaked to the mass media three weeks ago:

Most people could never excuse such an action, clinging to a belief system outdated by modern standards. Some people are just batty. During the final stretch of my campaign, I horrifically faced a brush with death I wish on no one. While campaigning in Holmby Hills, an irate banshee began hurling barbs with bitterness, a reaction worthy of an extended stay at the local rubber room. I escaped with my life, as did Scarlett O’Connell, and my trail of fire left from exhaust led to heavenly results. My First Lady recovered well from the ensuing drama.

Sebastian Santiago, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Interior, suggested that all voters should be required to write in the name of who they want for president. If a person can’t write legibly or at all, then how can you say they have "keen faculties or sound mind?"

A scraggly monkey can fill in a circle. I was noticeably brokenhearted by the outcome of the election, so he supportively reminded me of all the meaningful endorsements I received during the tough campaign. Nobody will ever forget when I gained the endorsement of the National Gothic Movement.

They are a joyous people, and they were very optimistic about their future under my administration. With all these swirling thoughts racing, I was forced to have a few from Lucca at Del’s Saloon.

Her good humor was encouraging. To wind down from the heavy campaigning, I met who would’ve been my Chief of Staff, the ultimate pop-off Ridge Thorneway. He maintains that never straying from objectivity is part of being a Basher. I told Ridge that the tanking economy makes it hard to remain objective. He empathized with that observation, then stated bluntly, “These hard times lead to heavy drinking.”

That night it did. Ridge later warned that you should never make fun of a drunken bar patron, the even one whose earlier judgment wavered on recklessness crossed with self-destructive blather. Now, as a has-been presidential candidate, I’m stuck making fun of passed out bar patrons at Del’s.

Holy Matrimony

2008-11-12T12:51:00.000-08:00

Rita agreed to Tony’s advances, so to the alter they went to seal the deal and finalize all outstanding contracts. I was invited to their wedding to witness a marriage, on the condition, of course, that I maintained good behavior and relented from Detonator style mischief. Nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

A bride this stunning makes men weep.

The location was incomparable, so after much serious contemplation, I was the one yelling “Fore” on random back swings from the bushes.

A major highlight was my ticket to the pre-game festivities, where champagne and females were abundant. I got there extra early for obvious reasons.

When it comes to make-up application, nobody does it better than Holly Valentine. She went to work on everyone, including Rita’s sister Roxie.

I had never before witnessed the preparation involved behind the scenes. Envy in the eyes of other males was surely apparent, especially when empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot led to multiple walks through the field to retrieve another three bottles. Everyone was taking care of each other.

The best part was the encircling, everyone wanting to get a piece of last second make-up primping for the bride, a tradition well respected among most female clans. The final touches reached a frenzy many will reminisce about for years. Everyone was going to look their best.

The ceremony was planned to perfection, no detail overlooked. It also helps to have endless champagne and Chivas to loosen up the bride and Maid of Honor.

I've read that marriage is done for the purpose procreation and requires consummation. There are other obligations to consider, like in some wacky cultures women are required to bear many children. Roxie simply believes in the power of love.

The sheer energy and introspective words of the preacher brought shivers down my spine. The look in Rita’s eyes gazing into that of her love boldly moved the spectators.

That soon led to the rampage of congratulations for the bride, here seen with her business partner Alice.

Bernadette Bender was there too, willing to cause stirs with her unrequited desire to Bash.

It had been forever since I challenged her wits, one of the many things I treasure from such a close friend.

One of my favorite bartenders Danny was there, which was no surprise to anyone with half a pulse.

He later fell into some type of drunken wormhole of self-realization. He claimed that the only way to terminate a marriage is by death.

Roxie gave a very well-received speech during the beautiful reception, certainly one of the many high points.

No matter what type of wedding traditions a family may follow, you have to love the dances with the father.

I was stoked to see Uncle Bob there, who Bashed me into submission with perfectly targeted insults, the kind that are the truth.

He pointed out that the age of consent in Spain is 13, 14 in a bunch of other European countries. As we had an in depth discussion on the many virtues of marriage, the beats from DJ Preston Moronie brought out Holly Valentine and her microphone. The Bash needed some Hyper Crush.

Virtually on cue, they began doing a daring mash up of the Hyper Crush catalog, moving the crowd from verse to verse with purpose. To do it up right, I hit the dance floor to liven things, a typical reaction since I know how to shake it with the crew.

The absurd amount of stiff pours from behind the bar only made the situation more manic. Roxie and Holly made sure to elevate the excitement of the proceedings.

No matter where I went, from front to back, I was viciously attacked by females fueled by thoughts that maybe, just maybe one day, they'll have their day.

Before leaving, I made sure to have a permanent impact by passing along five volumes of “The Art of Bashing” to a promising young college student, one with potential to dominate.

Spreading subversive propaganda around suffices when a positive mood accommodates my passion for the greater good. I gladly pulled ripcord before things could get too out of hand. The fortune showered forth was enough inspiration to attack Del’s Saloon. I was immediately greeted with a handshake from the peerless Amaury Guerrero.

One female was particularly perturbed by our brash behavior, which surely bordered on amazing. Some hussies are easily scared and get inexplicably caught in the headlights. This one was caught off guard, but then became very friendly.

When they figure out the method and understand the threat, calmness closes them and happiness shines supreme. She also suggested that all marriages include a dowry. Her annoying friend was not impressed. Neither was I.

Amaury immediately led her away with the heavy lure of darts. That also led to Amaury belting out an unsolicited karaoke duet with an extra amorous female who had a head full of impromptu drunkenness.

All in all, I survived Rita's wedding and Del’s, so I guess my political career remains intact. It was around this time I realized people were getting rather stupid from the excessive liquid abuse. Very few knew I recklessly stole the bouquet, figuring it would shower me with unprecedented luck.

Best Friends Part 2: Peacock and Roxie

2008-10-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

Roxie and Peacock perfectly demonstrate that there isn't a more beautiful thing than seeing true friendship right before your eyes.

Peacock and Roxie have been through the tribulations of life together with the spectacle of high drama, laughter, and many unfortunate spectators like myself. I told them once before that best friends, on their level, are a rarity far from extinct.

As Bobby and Cliff would agree, best friends are never ashamed to mug shamelessly for satisfaction.

Among the travails of daily meanderings, a best friend's shoulder can always be leaned on. You share a bond so close that bliss knows no bounds. Just by knowing them you’re never the same.

You can tell a terrible joke, and for some mysterious reason they’ll go ahead and giggle, in essence, helping you out with fragile self-esteem issues. Becoming a best friend takes time, fostered from occasions deserving of deepest trust, like Bashing gloriously because it's Tuesday.

The minds of best friends are connected by infallible hearts. Mere communication through body language often says more than words could’ve conveyed. You don’t even have to have a conversation to know what each other are thinking.

You can give a heartfelt monologue just by looking into their eyes. The fun never ends. It’s great to conspire in making calls or leaving perverse voice mails for unsuspecting male recipients. They get broadsided; the targets never realize what just punched them in the jaw.

Roxie and Peacock accept each other for what they are, believing that they can be better humans by sticking together. What feels better than hugging your best friend? The hugs are close and you mean it when you smile.

Moments and experiences like that are a tough bargain when sadly considering the countless population of ignorant animals surrounding us. The Detonator says nothing good happens at 3:44 in the morning, like that phone call from your best friend that's either answered or ignored with a smirk. Most of the time you’re together on the road at 3:44 in the morning.

I’ve heard that friendship is heavily attached to the theory of soul mates, because any lack of perfection still keeps them perfect for you. The Hat says it’s hereditary, I say it’s magic.

Above all else, in the grand scheme of things, a best friend keeps you sane in the insane world.

Best Friends Part 1: Bobby and Cliff

2008-09-25T15:38:00.000-07:00

Of all Del's Saloon patrons, nobody represents the category of best friends better than Bobby and Cliff. Cliff always knows when I’m causing serious mischief and has no problem showing it.

Whenever Master Cliff and Bobby Farlow attack Del’s Saloon right, throwing back cocktails proper, Lucca gets an added edge of excitement, and she never judges the finest of The Circle without judicious scrutiny.There’s always so much unconditional love floating around when we’re all at Del’s Saloon.Bobby, for example, has a penchant for using his middle finger as an intricate form of communication.

Since best friends usually share the same qualities, Cliff speaks the same language.

And Bobby will give it back. Best friends can touch your warm heart by a simple glance, even with a willing participant like Lucca in the middle. As expected, when he isn’t hanging out with his best friend Cliff, Bobby finds time to bond with great people like Kristin.

With Cliff, he used to tend to be guided into the arms of lovely Jenna Wade, a Beverly Hills magnate with governmental ties to Panama. They haven't seen each other lately at all.

Bobby and Cliff aren’t afraid to take the party train to Del’s for breakfast either, and they never arrive empty handed. Best friends are constantly capable of doing that, and like with Bobby, Cliff has never failed me with wit and concentration. You can’t pick your family, but you can certainly pick your friends, and Tatum is an excellent choice with the sass factor.

It’s great to have best friends, but it’s even greater to be one, a sort of achievement Sebastian Santiago has achieved effortlessly on the fringes of amazing.

Calling someone a best friend carries weight. Being able to trust someone that deeply means you can spill your guts out without worrying of presumptions, a motif thought about and dissected by Cliff in adverse situations of grandeur.A best friend will tell you what you certainly wouldn’t tell yourself. Bobby and Cliff share an unbiased perspective on such matters, like females and finances, a trait invaluable and treasured when used to build each other up. Coming above in major categories is natural and executed telepathically.

You can always be you, and dubious demeanor never takes unexpected shifts in true friendship. For example, Bobby gets called out with regularity for casual hostilities.

When you have best friends like Bobby and Cliff, you feel secure enough to pour your heart out on any pressing matter, or you can embark on outrageous adventures of infamy, like the many I've shared with the legend of Cliff and his muse Lacey.

It's sad, but when your glorious best friend isn’t around you greatly miss them, a void instantly becomes apparent. At their strongest you’re able to laugh heartily and cry, or you Bash righteously!

I could’ve never seen what was important otherwise. Because of them, I found the absolute greatness of my First Lady.

Vote Floyd Sanders for President of the United States of America! Down with the status quo, Floyd '08!

Stalkers!

2008-08-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

Some might argue that a woman can be impressive enough to drive a man psycho. Regardless, it takes precious time to stalk someone.

Stalkers tiptoe around in the shadows, and like perverted peeping toms, they can sometimes be found hanging from trees armed with binoculars and bad intention.

Stalkers who get caught in the act will cover-up the deranged reason they decided to fall off the subconscious deep-end. When you identify and confront a stalker with facts, positively noting that they are a stalker, this commonly leads to pathological lying. In my unprofessional opinion, stalkers are certifiably insane. The eyes of a crazy person look like this:

The pursuit of a victim can stem from a variety of psychological factors, such as anger, projection of blame, obsession, dependency, denial, and worst of all, jealousy. The stalkee can be put through quite a bit of trauma from the hurtful experience provided by an unbalanced stalker. Worse, they can appear from out of nowhere, jumping onto your back when least expected.

Stalkers want something they cannot have, taking on their pursuit like a hungry wolf hunting prey. Sadly, they are known to take human form.

Precautions can be taken, like having a guard dog in your humble abode to keep intruders from entering and going through your things when away. Dogs scare evil stalkers.

The paparazzi, also known to some as “stalkerazzi,” trail celebrities and are able to invade privacy within the rules of the law. Sometimes the result is the stalkee going bananas, lashing out viciously.

One can’t blame the frustration that comes with being stalked, especially when they just won’t get a hint and go away. According to famed mental health specialist P.E. Mullen, there are five types of these psychological terrorists. The first, the Rejected Stalker, tries to correct or reverse rejection, and they are usually filled with sadness and jealousy. They cling to the belief that their failed relationship can be rekindled. This type of stalker believes that the victim needs to be rescued or punished for flaws in judgment.

The Resentful Stalker tries to scare their victims as a form of revenge and is irrationally paranoid through bitterness. An Incompetent Suitor is a socially inept idiot with a crazed fixation who feels entitled to their victim, one who is often already involved in a relationship with a sane person. The universally feared Predatory Stalker spies in order to prepare and plan an attack on the victim. They are the least common but the creepiest of the bunch.

The hardest ones to shake are the Intimacy Seekers. All they want is a loving relationship with the victim/soul mate, believing they are "meant to be together." They have a desire to help the target, misguided in their belief that the victim loves them too. Negative responses by the victim are perceived as encouragement. Delusional Intimacy Seekers are statistically the most persistent type of stalker. In the grand scheme of stalking, Lucca says her batty stalkers are stealthy and try hard to keep their annoying actions quiet.

Stalkers cannot be trusted and restraining orders should be seriously considered in any case, be it extreme or otherwise.

Sadly, schizophrenics don’t understand the law. Too bad weird freaks often ignore restraining orders, instead looking at them as a challenge in the way of their ultimate goal. Amaury Guerrero was once shocked by the “coincidental” appearance of Lisa Brenner at Q’s.

To add suspicion, she was rolling alone, so he immediately filed a restraining order. The effects of stalking vary, but it’s most certainly a disruptive mental assault, one that causes destruction of trust and emotional insecurity. Severe forms of anxiety are exposed, as well as anger and even embarrassment. Aside from crippling hypervigilance (abnormally increased arousal that scans the environment for threats), good physical health can be deterred through lack of sleep by constantly imagining a perpetrator trying to look through your window.

The stalker will usually wear nondescript clothing and will drive a car other than his own to avoid detection. Perceived anonymity is the stalkers best friend, and the majority of them are male.

Thankfully, I haven’t had any male stalkers, but I’ve recently discovered the travails of having a few female stalkers. I think everyone agrees that stalkers can be classified as pitiful losers. One misconception is that female stalkers aren’t as dangerous as male stalkers. It’s a complete myth, and the psychiatric status doesn’t differ. Thing is, women often target other women. It’s like the female astronaut, Lisa Marie Nowak, who fearlessly stalked cross-country while wearing diapers.

That crazy broad tried to kidnap the girlfriend of an astronaut she was once romantically involved with. She obviously suffers from a personality disorder. Most stalkers have a history of criminal activity and substance abuse, although some utilize stalking as a gateway to greater crimes, many of which are documented on the great Oxygen TV show “Snapped.”

Stalkers are a low form of human being, putting their own interests ahead of anybody else, especially the person being victimized. I once dated a girl who threatened to commit suicide in order to cause an intervention on my part, to force me to have contact with her, give her comfort. She succeeded, and I broke my long-standing silence to tell her, “Go ahead, do it, my life will be easier.”

By never following through with her game, she reinforced her psychosis. Because of a recent stalking problem, I was clearly prompted to change my cell phone number, and thus far, have remained happily stalker free. You can find yourself in danger if they know where you live, so it’s best to keep potential threats at more than arms distance. Problem is, you can know someone for years and never realize they have stalking in their blood. You can’t always confirm the traces of crazy in their eyes.

In conclusion, all stalkers are bonkers, and when it comes down to it, Floyd Sanders will always be bulletproof!

Reform Yourself

2008-07-27T06:06:00.000-07:00

You can effectively become hostage to a manufactured personality.

For the best you should lay all your honesty to bear, ditch any practical lies to show soul. It's too easy to assume the resolute route will lead to capturing the prized heart.

Worse is when yours is smitten roughly, and concealing the fact feels inconsiderate. I had casual correspondence with Raj Vasher regarding the best music websites, and it somehow led to me confessing real affection after a glorious evening the day before. I was intensely lovelorn, thoughts jumbled sharply, and I professed feelings that had been foreign to me. He has seen it all.

Raj instantly responded with:

“This is maybe the most important email you've sent me in a while. Actually, not the most important... but the most heartfelt. I'm really excited to hear that you like-like a girl. It's been a long time since Brooke and the Unmentionable. And random hook ups were always designed to lead you into the arms of a quality girl. I trust Amaury with my life, so if he says that she's qualified... then she is qualified. And even if this thing doesn't last, it's good to have a steady girl for a while to smash preconceptions about you.”

If you have women all over you, you’re immediately labeled as a womanizer, even if you don’t act on the impulses. If you write a book about “The Art of Bashing,” you’re immediately scrutinized for what the text represents and how it applies to your mentality.

It isn’t too difficult to build a bit of a reputation, be it good or bad, maybe neither. Sometimes you can inadvertently overexpose yourself, becoming effortless prey for hungry wolves. All you can do is prove that the common thought is wrong, that is, if they’re willing to trust you. Overarching confidence can shroud significance.

Through the trials, you end up wanting the best more, as though being a glutton for punishment may change the situation in your favor. It usually doesn’t. Either they want you or not. The Seek always gets hurt by the Sought.

Through initial frustration I pondered viable remedies within reach, the trollops a phone call away that would comply in healing my torn heart. But I couldn’t make any call, they were meaningless, and I knew it would never solve the way I felt.

Should I take Denise out to the Hollywood Bowl for old time’s sake?

Should I bring flowers, maybe a bottle of champagne to Tasha for a straightforward score?

Was another Venice Beach excursion in order to search for the perfect sunglasses?

Sometimes it’s safer to check your true feelings at the door, but I’m sick of doing that. It’s a rarity to feel discarded hastily, but it's a risk worth taking. I’d rather go to Busby’s than feel this way. Reforming yourself is clear when motivated by something greater than you.

Nothing feels absolute, a testament to turbulent confusion coupled with an apprehension reaching dangerous levels barely touched before. I never question myself, but now I have no choice. Feeling trapped is sickening.

The solution lies in being true to oneself, and fear of sacrifice should be taken competently. Sometimes being yourself can backfire, even if they laugh at your dumb jokes.

Maybe you can’t change who you are even if you really try, but knowing the benefits of change and wanting it pave the path smoother.

I finally figured out that I’m misunderstood. Making a person you truly like believe and trust you is a task undertaken with heavy duress attached. You can never blame people for believing the myth.

Trust

2008-06-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

Being able to trust someone is the foundation of any friendship, but by doing so you risk enabling a means to take advantage. Trust helps separate integrity from depravity.

I guess there’s something to be said for perception and the way it can control our decision making capacity. One could feasibly blame society at large for creating expectations, the kind that make us wander around fearing judgment. Fear is something I embrace.

Trust is very dangerous; it certainly isn’t negotiable. Either it’s there or it's not. For instance, I have the utmost confidence that Michelle or Lucca would never dream of slipping me a harmful roofie.

I'm lucky enough to know that as a fact. Along similar lines, being able to trust the hand operating a camera can also come into play at opportune times.

You can’t help but contemplate who’d have your back if there was an outbreak of deceitfulness. On one absurd adventure with Lance Cannon, he proved his honor for Suzy at the 4^th Annual Carhole Bouncy Boxing Bash.

She knew she could trust him. He's a gentleman and a scholar, plus Lance has the ultimate trust in me when it comes to beer pong combat. We’ve only been defeated once, and that particular match ended in bitter controversy. I simply don’t miss when everything is on the line.We’ve both stood with conviction enough times to know right from wrong. Lance usually has his way with women, and the skeptics can’t make a viable argument against it due to his pleasant benevolence. He once said, “There's lots of people that can fool me, but they can only do it once!”

We both marvel at deep bonds from sisterly love, something the Ahmad sisters authentically share. When you see something that pure and incandescent, even when you personally have no frame of sibling reference, you can still appreciate the love you see in others. It's one of the most beautiful things you can see.

Genuine smiles cannot be faked. Within the two of them it’s impossible not to sense the heightened level of faith they have in each other, and that's important in any treasured relationship. For example, whenever I need to talk to someone honest, who isn’t influenced by circles and maintains a logical balance, I readily turn to Holly Paige. We usually meet for cocktails on the Venice boardwalk.She won't pull any punches, and I can tell her my problems, concerns, subversive musings, and Hell, I'll always heave in a casually scathing critique for good measure. But most of all we laugh a lot. The same goes for Cliff and his reliable grip.

I trust Cliff because of the unique way he conducts investigations, a sleuth with a taste for the theatrical. He allows me to get the most out of my venting sessions because of his finely tuned rationalizations. His only limitation has been his ability to get the truth out of Jade.

That still seems dubious at best. Of all things, he was able to tame the unrelenting spirit of Harper O'Hara, achieving a level of trust which goes well beyond standard belief.

Preliminary qualification exercises test the durability of trust. Without trust there cannot be love. Negligence in handling trust tends to be forgiven if interpreted as a failure of competence. Funny how it’s so incredibly hard to find someone you can fully trust, yet effectively losing trust is far too easy an accomplishment. You also can’t trust people that tell you everyone else’s secrets. The eyes of the disingenuous never lie.

There’s people like Rolo, a man I could never sincerely trust. Some people just carry around chips on their shoulder the size of the national debt, and sometimes they happen to play guitar.

He raises obvious suspicions and his recent attempts toward Roxie remain unfulfilled. She'd more likely forget her own name than have him.I’ve exposed my vulnerabilities to her on countless occasions, and I’m able to do it without any panic. She knows she can depend on me for reciprocation, and that's what true friendship is all about. I trust her with all my heart, and strangely enough, Holly is her consummate karaoke partner.

Some people trust everyone until there's a reason not to. I trust a few people, and of course, Peacock is one of them.

We never doubt each other. It feels good to tell someone what’s truly on your mind, and sometimes that comes with a hug. I’ve always had a deep respect for unconditional honesty, the type that’s invaluable and unequal. With The Hat, it might just be because he’s down with Public Enemy.

I haven't told anyone about this one girl I can’t stop thinking about. I wonder if I’d have been better off never meeting her. It isn’t even that I want her; I only want to deserve her. And I sit here, looking at my phone, my email, and I want to call or write, but I’m not sure if I’d be putting on too much pressure. I really like her. It’s difficult when you feel this way, and even though follow-through is often stunted or questionable, I always get a definitive answer. The intuition never fails when trusted.

Legend of Lotus Vodka Bar Crawl

2008-06-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

My good friend Tatum of award-winning Lotus Vodka fame put together an ambitious bar crawl to promote the excellence of the spirit she represents. We corralled a London style double-decker bus to support grandeur and such.

Tantalizing Tatum, the mastermind behind the inspired debacle, was in awe of the spectacle presented front and center. Considering the stops, without her leadership we would've been lost.The Carmel Queen never fails, her focus firmly squared on outshining expectations. Taking charge of a situation with raised odds of ugliness is an art few capture well. Tatum was not afraid to regulate the proceedings with trusty whistle blows.

Her ultimate mission ended up succeeding, which was to bring the collective aboard a London double-decker bus with a mobile bar, prizes, trinkets and 7 bar stops with Lotus being the prime supplier throughout. We were not disappointed.

The double-decker even had remarkably classy carpeting.

T-shirts arrived and began surfacing on backs. Lucky for us Tatum made sure to come equipped with all necessary resources.

Cliff was working by default, and he had no problem enhancing our experience with Jell-O shots on a platter.

Cliff felt intrigue was around the corner. In going with that curious prediction, Bobby Farlow made sure that Willie Chesnut came along to represent Lotus Vodka strong.

After discussing world peace and being disarmed by her compassionate insights, I knew I could learn a lot from her. Cliff had a hand with giving Willie a successful debut at Del’s Saloon, where havoc is wreaked on many a hero.

I kicked it to Willie Chesnut on a few binges at Del's, her coolness compounded by an unbelievable association with Bobby's adventures in Saxony.

The range of her power has not been established; a mind you would not believe, no tricks up her sleeve. Sometimes women are the master race. The last time we met I savagely Bashed Lacey on accident.

With growing frequency in facing greatness, the romantic Del’s Saloon is a common ground of rendezvous. Tony Stark has been to Del’s, and he has nothing on Lotus Vodka served by lovely Lucca, never looking better in Lotus Vodka garb. Blue or White?

The motif makes a mind wander. My stroll in the bar got going with a couple rough Lotus crans. Wayne and I decided to play pool on our home turf, exploit our toughness in a fine display of sport. We officially ransacked Del's at 1:20pm.

Their supply of Lotus Vodka got hit hard. A tricky defeat at pool led me back onto the bus, where I finally met our Lotus Vodka bartender Monica.

She managed to concoct random mixes of joy, amounting to preposterous damage being done on a scale seldom used. I encouraged her to push for infamy since I'm not the average.

I enjoyed her cruel creations at the bar of ill-repute. The shots kept coming with the fury of bad omens. Soon later, Natalie had established her skill at victimizing us one by one, along with her cold-blooded assassin sister Sara.

Natalie began lurking for prey early in the day, with full rounds loaded and cocked.

Their trail of tears led guns to my head at Del’s. I might be Bashmaster General, but I wasn’t able to resist the thrill of death by Lotus.

We all go a little mad sometimes.

An international crisis was ready to spill over. I’m glad that Bobby Farlow rolls around with bodyguards for protection. Of course, Bobby could easily take out both bodyguards. Jokingly we call them "Bobbyguards."

The Inner Circle has a lot of comedians, but extra muscle goes a long way when mysterious journeys lack an ultimate answer. Relentless Cliff was on an unparalleled tear with Jodie, another employee freshening Lotus Vodka.

She marveled at Cliff’s strength utilization methods, a brute force that comes into play for cheers, one that was ably flaunted on Kacey as well as Sebastian Santiago.

Everything was going according to plan and Tatum was at ease with the natural progression of the event. It turned out to be an unreal 14 hour party. I mostly hung out at South with Ronda, who was busy dressing down the fly girl Lorie.

The post-up move was smooth and proved fruitful. Ronda had climbed onto the double-decker well prepared with her cooler of Sparks Plus and the diabolical Wayne Maxwell.

Of course, a quest this epic meant the strategic additions of Amaury Guerrero, a Murphy-Darling sister and the incomparable Raj Vasher, whose excessive bout of boisterousness got him quickly ejected and 86’d from South.

There should be a wake whenever he leaves a place. Back on the bus we were joined by Roxie, a late boost cherished at any hour.

She just began writing a screenplay about a deaf lesbian chainsaw murderer. Roxie was an enthusiast enraptured by the views of a Santa Monica colored by intoxicating visuals. We were riding that wave, everybody there, even the randoms and the witches.

It wasn't all peace and serenity, for some party fouls deserve prompt smothering. One rule is never run smack at a girl around gentlemen. Thank God Mr. Santiago doubles as a bouncer.

He usually maintains a low profile, the deadliest weapon at my side whenever mobile upon the treacherous locale.

The Cajun roots might have something to do with it, and he can sure spin a good "Rougarou" yarn. A true cosmopolitan, his knowledge of Eastern philosophy is something we can all aspire to understand. On our way to Barney's Beanery, with a glimmer of a smile, he said, "We're here for decent pours and whores, and all of us are whores." He also appreciates being loaded while having your hair blow in the wind so high. Nobody could argue with that, especially the gypsies.

Later I met a honey named Sabrina who was getting stalked by an alleged ex-boyfriend, an angry soul who threw a brick through her window last week. She was drinking a Lotus Bomber. To pile on some more spotless debauchery, Tatum made sure to enlist a bacherlorette party for our breathless double-decker pleasure. They were fueled by Lotus Red Bulls.

Little did I know someone wanted to steal my deals. When day turned into night something was amiss. My usually sharp senses began to betray me, my agile motor skills began to tweak, started on a weird streak of foolish moves, even though I was wide eye awake from Lotus Blue (the caffeinated vodka).

My body was shutting down, the Yetis were out to get me. Delusional thoughts began racing through my head, like maybe somebody was trying to intentionally derail my presidential hopes. Someone must’ve been sent to carry out blatant serpent wickedness, deliver a dire message, be it Obama, McCain or the Illuminati. I eluded safety from confusion, then nothing.

It’s pretty amazing the kind of mental metamorphosis you undergo after getting roofied and hit by a car, which sadly isn’t documented by gritty photography. There’s nothing like the sensation of noticing total loss of control, your muscles and body become alien, your mind struggling to try and keep up but it eventually slips away completely. It's evil. Next thing you know you’re in your bed, blood everywhere. You don’t even remotely know where the bleeding came from, hands wrapped sloppily in gauze, dazed, your bloodied sheets devastatingly ruined. You nearly fall out bed bad because your balance is shot, you look at your legs and they’re destroyed. You glance back at your bed and it’s like you stepped out of an incredibly violent horror movie. Swollen knees, your shins and calves are riddled with the beginnings of nasty bruising, open cuts splattered. Your arms are barely useful in helping you up from unknowingly getting smashed by speeding metal on the street. You wonder the extent of injury, so out of fear you decide to shower. You wash off the blood with the sting of shampoo and soap, your true tone catching light of day. Pain is somewhat numbed by lingering alcohol, although the crippling drug is still in your stream thriving. Pulse is erratic and there's shadows around you, so you know you're hosed. The next day you’re in the hospital, praying to anyone above listening that you didn’t break bones, that you didn't sustain a concussion or worse.

You will live, yet the doctor theorizes that the mayhem caused was feasibly by car. Then you insist on taking a drug test, which of course comes up positive with a heavy dose of Rohypnol. The doctor tells you that you’re lucky, that the effect on anyone with a smaller frame may have been deadly. No pink fluffy dinosaurs involved, just dread and hostility towards malice. A shame I wasn't afforded the luxury of changing my mind.

Regardless, I want another Lotus Vodka Bar Crawl, and the consortium concurs. What doesn’t kill you makes you smarter. Disgusting descriptions of myself make women want me more.

Voodoo Pharmacology

2008-05-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Once again, in the interest of full disclosure, before my smug and arrogant opponents claim credit for introducing a scandal where there is none, my presidential campaign committee has agreed to release the only photo of me smoking crack.

My critics no longer have an October surprise; they can go no further with their misguided slander and aimless swings at assassinating my character. Regardless of their banally motivated intentions, I’ve already taken the measurements of the Oval Office, so I plan on going with gold trim red velvet curtains.

Last week I walked the streets of Santa Monica with my personal hair stylist Roxie, and we went around asking concerned citizens about the important issues effecting their every day lives. There are many prevalent issues gaining attention nationally, and I think we all agree that reducing gang violence across the country is fundamental in achieving solidarity.

Roxie and I also traversed the rural areas of America, and the excitement this campaign has captured is simply unmistakable. I was especially encouraged by our recent camp out in Lake Cachuma, where we all shared intimate moments among s'mores and fire.

Momentum is on our side. After a rally in the slums of the San Fernando Valley, I flashed back to a thoughtful conversation I had at Element with Mr. Donny Fontaine. We were in a deep discussion about the crisis at the pump and wasteful energy consumption.

He's a resident of Reseda, and he likes that I’m not a panderer. We agreed that opening up the Strategic Petroleum Reserve would lower current market prices, which in turn puts pressure on OPEC to lower the cost of oil and produce more barrels a day. I engaged in the same constructive dialogue with local constituents while teaching the finer points of beer pong form.

She nailed that one. In my travels across the country I’ve talked to many people. I’ve even met with the hippies, one of whom accidentally Bashed Peacock's head on the pavement.

Because of the mishaps that can befall anyone on the road to the White House, I just added a new member to my security detail in Harry, a headstrong Basher whose voice alone has the strength of a thousand men.

His muscle will help me hustle votes. As is tradition, I’ve been kissing a lot of cute babies on the trail. Without fail, each time I think about their future. I wonder whether the standards of the classroom today can compete with the world of tomorrow. I dropped by Jill’s place to witness the benefits of giving piano lessons at an early age.

Scenes like that make it easier to draw inspiration. About three weeks ago I was invited to attend a soccer match in Los Feliz. While there, I managed to capture a lonely moment on the sideline as Skip looked on, waiting earnestly to get into the game.

When his number was called he showed spectacular poise on the field. His patience and awareness were able to translate into kicking the game winning goal. The crowd went nuts. Afterwards we celebrated the often shunned notion that perseverance and faith can overcome any perceived obstacle. He believes in himself, and we all believed in him. It's really no surprise that rabid women hungered for his flesh.

Through that, I’ve come to realize the importance of animal rights, especially since Wayne Maxwell’s dog The Colonel is the greatest animal in the world.

I’ve also made the rounds in meeting representatives from other friendly nations across the world. I recently met Karin Wahlström, a highly skilled skier and long distance runner from lovely Luleå, Sweden.

She has many magnetic facets to her personality, and her physical finesse is quite remarkable. Her father is a prominent member of the Swedish Social Democratic Party with ties to party leader Mona Ingeborg Sahlin. We discussed the drastic differences in our governmental ideologies and how some aspects of their thriving system could benefit the United States. Karin's background has helped her achieve impeccable knowledge in varied political discourse. We continued our colorful conversation at Cha Cha Lounge.

Raj Vasher made a concerted effort to chat about the recent election victory by the Alliance of Sweden. He was quickly rebuffed when bringing up the questionable virtues of surströmming sandwiches.

As he tried switching the subject to the weather, I shamelessly brought the conversation back to the great films of Lasse Hallström. It was then that I began to suspect she was smart enough to know my ulterior motives. She was spot-on if she was, for creating strong international relations will be significant during my presidency. At that point I turned my attention to two vivacious girls hanging out by the foosball tables.

I can now count on their brash activism in the coming months. Fired up from attaining qualified leads that day, I figured my invigorating streak of luck needed some proper exploitation. So of course I made a call and showed up at an undisclosed doorstep late that evening. I was unceremoniously dropped off by Raj, leaving me to my own wits and devices. I was duly prepared for a grand entry.

I highly recommend utilizing the rose in teeth method, yet the next morning I woke up to this startling image.

The Passion for Bashin'

2008-05-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

According to Miguel de Cervantes, "Too much sanity may be madness, and maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be!" My mythic week commenced with Lance Cannon’s Birthday Jacuzzi Party, a spectacle of water sport and unrequited Bashing. I did not come away unscathed.

Jacuzzi nights and champagne on ice dominate Southern California summertimes. Twisted is how Lance finished, a shell of himself carried out by the crew, begging for more Sparks Plus while legless. That whole evening turned into something freakish. Drinking a high volume of booze led to some patently disturbing behavior, a series of events that will forever lack any coherent explanation.

Rolo and I needed no excuses; all bets were off and most of the incriminating evidence was destroyed by morning. The debacle all happened, of course, after celebrating Roxie’s birthday at Tony’s Taverna in Malibu.

It’s a haven for the infamous Greek Feast and stellar belly dancing by world renowned Varvara. The lucky birthday girl was encouraged to shake it from above.

I loved her zills. The hummus was out of control tasty, but my favorite dish was easily the savory pastichio. At that point I wasn’t disheveled, as demonstrated by my remarkable composure while seated next to sexy Dani Devlin.

It’s like being taken into a new world with her, away from the constant drudgery of daily misgivings and personal indiscretions. Those mean nothing to me in her presence. I wasn’t successful in keeping my meat hooks off her, but she didn’t seem to mind. I now know I believe in her. The next day, in order to properly hydrate my body and readjust focus, I stopped by Wayne Maxwell’s pad for spiritual guidance. To my most pleasant surprise, I caught him playing The Detonator in a heated match of chess.

The Detonator always makes my King fall, but Wayne got the better of him in that outing. Later in the week Wayne and I met up with Barry the bartender at Il Fornaio for some Captain Morgan Cokes and their mouth-watering Pizza Fradiavola. The service is exemplary and borders on amazing.

Barry, on the left, keeps all the customers happy. After quick pops at Il Fornaio we meandered down Rodeo Drive, because we’re important people that breathe crucial life into any lack of classiness. Amaury Guerrero helped us represent it.

Outside of Beverly Hills, the week also saw the highly anticipated release of Hyper Crush’s “The Arcade,” a CD that I’ll be bumping all summer on PCH. Their posse took over Element in Hollywood with the propaganda machine in full swing towards glory and beyond.

It wasn’t a hard sell at all to the hordes of adoring fans. The masses echoed that of the Malibu Inn, although this time out the floor was packed more aggressively so. I was forced to keep my elbows elevated in creating ample space to protect my women. I initially blazed onto the scene furiously, shadowed in a temperament of reckless abandon with a splash of flirtatious intrigue.

The sheer intensity of the place was shocking after listening to the melancholy of Portishead most of the day, and only the heathens knew what upbeat music would have in store for my fragile psyche. So in attacking the bar first, I managed to go back-to-back Jagerbombs followed by swilling a Corona back. I was stronger, and at that point I realized who I wanted.

My sweet dreams were quashed when Bernadette Bender interrupted my inner monologue to ask if I wanted a drink. I said yes.

And there was more. Ravishing Leerone also released her CD entitled “Imaginary Biographies,” another fantastic album, and her performance at El Cid crept beyond extraordinary and into legend.

Listening to her makes me feel real warm inside, and having wonderful string arrangements in backing lifted passions. I met her good friend Natasha before the show, Bashed her into submission effortlessly.

She had taken a candid Polaroid of me when I arrived.

Leerone has the voice of an angel. She’s simply exquisite, and she would make a fine First Lady.

Aside from qualifying, she officially earned herself an admirer. Crazy with everything going on, that quest is becoming rather cumbersome. It didn’t help that I also went to a throwback toga party equipped with a beer bong that would’ve clearly pleased The Detonator.

Joycelin Jacoby took the reigns proudly. A highlight was the possessed beast sent from below that sat on Devon Ahmad’s lap.

The mangy mongrel wanted attention. It reminded me of years ago, when Juan and I used to indulge in demonstrations of drinking skill, outwitting those looking for attention by grabbing it all for ourselves.

It’s a superior method which should be brought back, a study in all cases dominated by higher intelligence in the face of absurdity. The quiet ones in the corner never get the rambunctious girls, so it depends on what you’re looking for. Harper O’Hara concurs.

I first learned that slant at The Coronet when I was taking multiple shots with Skip. This girl stammered towards me in spades, then yammered on and on about something uninteresting, but everyone in the room knew she targeted me and pulled the trigger, a b-line move if there ever was one. With girls like that, all you need is 10 seconds alone. I always get guilty pleasures from a carnival atmosphere and everything in it.

On Sunday morning I headed to Del’s Saloon for a notorious Bloody Mary or four courtesy of Lucca, which starts off any Sunday righteously. She was sad when I finally had to rest.

Kamikaze Attacks Del's Saloon

2008-05-01T11:09:00.000-07:00

Some foolishly suicidal broad interrupted the harmony of Del’s Saloon by crashing her SUV through the front of the building, taking out a tree first. Bobby Farlow was on the crime scene.

The hysterical girl was allegedly scorned by her boyfriend over at Busby’s, admitting to everyone within earshot that she tried ending her worthless life, a bold statement for her dude and family to comprehend later. She was sadly unsuccessful, earning the title of “Bad at Suicide, 0-1.” It put quite a scare into the patrons; a sudden collision into a beloved bar is never expected. What distressed me most upon hearing the news was that she took out the area where we often play darts. The Hat, Devon and I would’ve been badly injured or killed if it happened on this particular night.

Theoretically, we could’ve been victims to some psychotic skank’s utter selfishness. Out of all the places she could’ve smashed into, why did it have to be Del’s? I’d have had more respect if she cut herself or popped pills and failed. Del’s had done nothing to her, and if she really wanted to crash her SUV into a bar, she should’ve just turned around and destroyed Busby's, a wretched excuse for a sports bar. At least that’s what Cliff said.

Busby’s was probably the main reason she became downright delusional. She’d have had a better time in a sanitarium, which is where she’s currently under observation. Only hapless losers go to Busby's and enjoy it, a truth all facts support. You’ll never find worse service and more sausage anywhere, whereas Del’s has the friendliest bartenders with the stiffest pours, the kind that help you tie one on faster than you can say “Kamikaze!”

Venting about useless people and places is boorish, I must relent, but it's tough to focus on inspiring topics rather than the macabre, like how The Hat and I didn't die and still Bash gloriously at Del's!

You can't beat a great bar that's crawling distance from headquarters. On any given night or day, half the place knows you. It's like Cheers on steroids. Bobby recently said, "When you know everyone at a bar, you have license to stalk any newcomers." Amaury and I tried that last Friday, with mixed results.

Not sure if she was afraid, but she'd certainly never seen a press quite like that. With wit and unsurpassed mastery in the Art of Bashing, most guards are dropped effortlessly once the first salvo has been executed properly, a talent Tatum and Scarlett O'Connell admire.

The locals are easily my favorite aspect of Del's, which is where the venue flourishes on a daily basis. Holly Paige and Reno are there everyday, and they were both disturbed by the bizarre suicide attempt.

I think everyone was pretty spooked, like Michelle, who instinctually ducked behind the bar when the unexpected visitor arrived at the wall.

Tough to not take it personal when assailants trying to end their feeble lives choose a dearly cherished landmark to dispatch themselves to Hell. I'm seriously grateful nobody was hurt, that this story didn't have a more tragic turn. That means I can continue receiving blackout drunk cell phone photos from former lovers.

The Hat Strikes Back!

2008-04-20T05:47:00.000-07:00

Small brained animals are generally dumber, but their instincts will surprise you. The Hat combats all of that and more with gusto!

The first annual B-Day Hat Bowl at El Dorado Lanes provided a quality showing of people, one slightly marred by the slowest bartender west of Texas. A great tasting cake made all the animosity go away.

While some Los Angeles personalities thrive on the pessimism of self-loathing, The Hat manages feats others would shudder to ponder. His list of accolades ransacked and looted represent what's right with humanity. For instance, the recent pillage on my birthday at Del's is still a mystery shrouded by rumor and hearsay.

I kind of remember him and Peacock buying me shots of something gross. Those birthday pictures showed, with glaring clarity, that when The Hat slays prey they don’t even suspect they’re getting slayed. Devon Ahmad and her sister Sharada are scholars who've analyzed The Hat's technique and managed to uncover identifiable patterns that tame the beast. Those girls are wily and cunning, as seen by their lewd display upon sabotaging my quest for bowling supremacy.

I was clearly outgunned and outbowled. The big winner of the night was Ridge Thorneway, who bowled an unbelievable 216.

Devon’s more known for her soft poker hands, much like her sharp dart throwing skills, or the slow float of her puck on shuffleboard wax. Devon stole two huge bets from me at The Hat’s poker night, effectively getting in my head.

I recommend folding when she pushes all-in. I’m glad she left for Burlingame before my shirt was removed. Overall, I managed to gain a decent cash reward while The Hat hit the jackpot. Later on, when I was feeling lucky, I threw my lighter in as part of a bet, and everyone at the table agreed it was legitimate. The key is to never throw in the nice watch, which I’ve only seen in funny movies. One thing was for certain, The Hat chose a night to shine.

His extraordinary successes overshadow my own, dwarfing almost all bar boasts by the pompous rookies. It’s probably marked by a life of athletic achievement in many sports, including many victorious co-ed tours.

He rarely sleeps alone, and his vitality is guided by sun, moon and stars. You can’t help but factor in the result oriented approach on the fly, like when he showcased adept skill at opening and operating a powerful telescope. His grasp and command of surroundings is resoundingly flawless.

On people that consistently fail, The Hat once said, “It’s like having to change your hitting style because the mechanics needed adjusting. Optimal optimism is never pessimistic.”

Hyper Crush Me

2008-04-10T03:54:00.000-07:00

Holly Valentine toyed with my emotions yet again, pulling the puppet strings, her control over me verified by the massive stage bruise on my lower quad muscle, one which became the size of a softball. It must’ve meant Hyper Crush played at the Malibu Inn.

I was either a hemophiliac or under the spell of Ms. Valentine. Infectious sounds became dangerous, sending my body into synchronized movements, the type that take task to trollops nightly.

I’d also had a lot on my mind, aside from nightly adventures unhindered, like my recent work for the Laeken Collection and my run for president. Roxie, Wayne Maxwell and Bernadette Bender joined my press towards the front, a success we never take for granted among the rude pushers, sweat-dripping stinkers and spillers. Women tend to smell nicer. Bathing isn’t optional, a slant I wholly agree with. The people of Malibu aren’t immune to rancid fragrances, and by being up front, we effectively cut our chances of finding poor hygiene by at least 50%. Holly agrees.

Hyper Crush’s new ripping single, “Boom Box,” is a track sure to make my best of 2008, the kind of ear candy I'll gladly blast on PCH. The preposterously addictive flows, coupled with the performance art in their live act, are a deadly combination rarely pulled off so well. Their musical originality is exceptional, and the following has exponentially expanded to far reaches, a fact demonstrated by severe lack of parking outside and an upcoming tour supporting their great new album "The Arcade." It helps when you’re able to routinely produce good songs.

Holly has her many suitors, as evidenced by the slobbering glances aimed in her direction, especially during the pre-game show put on by amateurs in comparison. The wonder of her appeal is something she’ll never lose.

Donnie Fontaine, the golden boy of The San Fernando Valley, can cook up savory lyrics with the best of them, tempered by the musical wizardry of the finest wedding DJ of all-time, the peerless Preston Moronie, who sported the Terminator T proud.

He’s the greatest crate digger since Pete Rock, DJ Shadow or Premier, simply the sickest. Hyper Crush is everyone’s new favorite band.

I’ve been asked numerous times by the Inner Circle dwellers whether I would turn down an advance by Holly Valentine. There’s a level of political correctness that comes with a serious presidential campaign, something my unworthy challengers tend to practice freely and recklessly without care. The American people are smart; they don’t fall for silly tricks. So to answer the question definitively, absolutely not. I bear that in mind, knowing her mystical powers in conjuring spirits can be harmful to less resilient species.

Arnie Ultimate Board

2008-04-01T08:41:00.000-07:00

I recently received a brilliant lost work from years ago, the infamous "Arnie Ultimate Board." It was solely created by the incomparable Avi Eshed, the maestro of scientific machinery, a pioneering inventor that provides mind-boggling solutions. For all you tech heads, I guess the program can be modified.

http://www.badongo.com/file/8112521

It is cool. Have fun prank calling people like we have. My boy Avi currently resides in Beverly Hills and has been known to cold lamp with the Flavor in Paris.

The collection of trophies on his mantle are staggering in scope, true masterstrokes in amazing. His genius is well documented, and females often speak of his hidden talents. A tour de force, Avi's rendition of "Arnie Ultimate Board" might go down as greatest creation in Internet history, or close. Like Avi usually does, I prank called all inconsequential numbers from recent Bashing.

Mangled Birthday Memory

2008-03-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

My birthday proved many points at Del's Saloon, all of which are vaguely remembered but mostly forgotten. There is no escaping your own birthday; you can’t stop what can’t be stopped.

Even the blanks filled in later by the marvels of digital photography ceased to illuminate the memory clearly. Once real details emerged, days later, my vision of manifest destiny sharpened. It wasn’t just the vision of grandeur and cheap thrills, which are always in place as a Basher, but it was something more, something more meaningful, as if my soul opened to the sound of sirens, or allegedly Frank Sinatra.

I guess it was an important realization, powerful, like when the Gods appear vividly on a disastrous bender. I probably knew what I needed to do. The competition is fierce, yet it isn’t any worse than those that succumb to my beer pong prowess. If you put your mind towards an achievement, work hard, you will always win. In going with that theory, The Hat infiltrated an obnoxious bachelorette party.

This is nothing new; mere swaths of his verbal dexterity equate to automatic entry through any gate, even those of stuck-up harlots. His amazing command of the art doesn't stun anymore, especially when always armed with a trusty kazoo.

I dove in without caution because it was my birthday on a Saturday night, the night of champions. Within moments an adornment was pilfered.

Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to claim the title of Happiest Man on Earth that evening. I then became inundated with too many leads at once, a blessing disguised by thievery when you don't remember any of it. To feed off some spoils to the usually unlucky, I tossed a few bones for Don to chew on.

The pictures say he was handling it. Those split seconds never lie, much like you know all is well when you manage to drag the Murphy-Darling sisters across the street for partying after Del's.

Wish I remembered. This evidently led to breakfast back at Del’s, the rare occasion you’re flung through the doors with no remorse at 6am. I guess nine more hours at Del’s was Sunday's second act, one sparked by lovely Lucca at dawn. Lucca is an awesome bartender, pouring the best cocktails and making hearts melt with the ease of her welcoming smile.

Like Ingrid, I wish they served that dish daily. That's what I was probably thinking during the bout with blackout drunk.

Having no memory is such a waste, and seeing the sunrise after a Bash-A-Thon doesn’t usually register right. I’m normally overcome with traces of panic, veering off the deep end knowing every sane person is asleep, with the exception of me and my motley fools.

Cliff, Bobby and I stumbled about, mumbling nonsense to anyone who’d listen, tracking the adventure via camera while blacked out. We were experiencing cranial failure, we weren't even really thinking anymore. I faintly recall that we hit our cell phones hard in a bid to lure out anyone willing to witness fine debauchery crossed with utter stupidity. Jade was the first victim of our fiery trail of dumb.

She'll never be the same. I hope she accepts my sincerest apologies. The same goes for Jenna Wade, who I apparently couldn’t stop touching.

I can only imagine the things that spilled out my Captain Morgan breathed mouth. I heard from her unsolicited days after, so I guess all is forgiven. Jenna’s friend Kristin Shepard stuck around from breakfast until well past lunch, a feat which earns much respect on a hungover Sunday.

Kristin confided who she’ll be voting for in the presidential election. “Floyd Sanders,” she said, “because I believe in you, I might even love you.” She had been there the night before, with the sultry cheer, showing support before my plunge into the abyss of amnesia.

They would both make fine First Ladies.I probably began weighing the probabilities of making polygamy legal when elected president. My conversation probably came along coarsely with oodles of drool. Yes, my birthday celebrated loving one another, something the world could use a little more of, maybe a lot. That fact was magnified by confirmation of score taken down by Don, circa 2pm.

By hour 19 I appeared to lose steam. The downward spiral was acknowledged when I had Chinese food delivered to Del's. Then the hallucinations began.

Around three I wandered off without saying goodbye. To cap off my legendary birthday, Lucca was in the last picture taken.

Tramp Stamp

2008-02-25T18:03:00.000-08:00

When there’s initially strong electricity you wonder if you’re dealing with a freak, the kind that forces you to seriously consider entering the witness protection program. I’d never met anyone quite like Harper O’Hara. Like the winning method tested on Katherine Wentworth and Rebecca, giving out a courteous complement carries weight. Nice shoes or hairstyle, or even if the length of their skirt is tastefully done. Among other things, Harper is another female that loves my prized blue Bamboo Mau Kangol cap.Her saucy nature was unquestionable and refreshing, and the Captain Morgan delivered didn’t undermine our progress. I began having fleeting thoughts of making a smooth assault, one without any remorse, precondition or worse. I ended up getting beaten to the punch.I was flattered and needed to act upon it. To efficiently expedite the process past the rolls of red tape, it was mandatory to perform preliminary qualification exercises. I had Cliff oversee the obligatory Bash examinations, to ensure she could truly be a possible candidate for First Lady.

This was all happening, of course, under zero detection from her end. To protect the vetting process, Cliff was the control. To my jovial surprise, Harper mastered existential balance and began racking up bonus points for extra credit.

Her graceful confidence was consummate, a feat greatly foreshadowed when she was viciously slaying every man’s ego on the Del’s Saloon pool table. Her mental and physical poise quickly went from understated to splashy.

With her alluring talents comparable to a ruthless conqueror, one floor trick was spoiled by Cliff’s naïve concentration in spectacular fashion.

Moments later, after minor injuries and insecurities were brushed away, there was a triumphant attempt. Ronda would’ve loved scrutinizing the exhibition of these advanced techniques.

Without a doubt, the most bewildering files are of photos taken while blackout drunk.

Elder Chen once said, “To marry a girl, you have to know it’ll last at least two years.”

The pictures obviously became more lurid and risqué, echoing that shady wintry night near Keith’s BBQ pit. Memories captured in digital form never lie.

Nothing could be closer to the truth, and this truth was curiously jaded by mystifying riddles wrapped in timeless questions. Harper’s high score has led to significant movement on the board.

Being an advocate for full disclosure is something all presidential candidates should champion, so I challenge all my worthy opponents to do the same. We, as a people, must leave behind the slash and burn politics of the past; we must regain our optimistic vision of hope. With your help, the politics of personal destruction can finally come to an end. Lovely Harper agrees.

If Harper becomes First Lady, she’ll have been the best of the nominees.

Lovesick

2008-02-18T19:18:00.000-08:00

A True Basher doesn’t find ideal females while sitting at home.

To profoundly achieve a sort of metaphysical balance, one must venture out into the cold in order to find necessary human warmth and tenderness.It has been days without that, a fact which doesn’t merit ridicule, but one that produces the often baffling intensity of yearning. I try to avoid that at all costs, the cost being too high and way too dangerous. Shelley acknowledges the logical quandary.

Whenever I’m this contemplative and in dire need of a quick pick-me-up, Peacock is never too far away to calm jittery nerves.

Don't know how she does it, but she does, and a little Champagne never hurts causes. I enjoy the fact she isn’t shy in front of the camera, looking for every opportunity to provide a quality mug.

These times of detached introspection also call for poker night with Roxie, who always holds her cards close to vest.

We’ve often tested the nightlife with an atmosphere of adventure persisting at a feverish pace, bent on using our cognitive energies wisely for the good of mankind. I can also find unbridled solace in the Incredible Smoking Indian Chief, who imposingly posts up outside of Gilbert's, my favorite Mexican restaurant.

The menudo is outstanding, but when I'm really despondent, nervous, or otherwise mentally fatigued, I take a trip to The Counter, a place where you’re able to conveniently create a gourmet burger for the right price. With numerous ingredients to choose from, all bets are off. I just concocted this masterpiece…

It's a much better option than watching "The Notebook" alone with a tub of ice cream, thinking of what could've been, what might be, what will never be. Sadly, a yummy meal doesn’t always curb an empty feeling inside. I wasn’t well put together, so upon arriving back at headquarters I went across the street to Del’s Saloon, mostly to take the edge off with some Maker’s Mark and branch. Around round two I began chatting up this girl from Dallas named Katherine Wentworth.

I’d had my fourth glass by the time I got around to asking her name. She agreed with my theories on the need for romantic closeness and the extremes some will take to achieve optimal sensations. I told her she was smart, and she really liked that. The same conversation at Mo's Place led to a sexy camera serenade, which quickly worked in melting Rebecca's heart.

Being able to make a flower out of a typical bar napkin is a stunner to the emotionally intoxicated. Later that night, Chantel and Bernadette Bender assisted me in lifting the spirits of the minions, demonstrating once again that having fun is catchy and influences the masses.

They've been invaluable partners-in-crime on too many occasions to count, our friendships forged with the finest steel for maximum durability and performance. The many disarming charms of Jenna Wade have been doing the same lately.

Discovering fresh finesse brings about glory and a heavenly sort of euphoria, all of which is definitely bewitching. I've sincerely come to the realization that having a desirable muse not only inspires brilliance, it also provides much needed subconscious stability. When Crystal plays the piano a smile never leaves my face.She elevates my mind, the worries of the world flatly brushed aside with my aural senses going wild. In the midst of all this risky brooding, two additional partners-in-crime have been recently added to the Gallery of Horrors. Suspect #1 is Bobby, aire to the Farlow fortune, a former master gunnery sergeant and gentleman beyond reproach.Years abroad have served him well on the dance floor. Suspect #2 is Cliff. Ribald at best, courteous at worst, he's proven to be a pillar of the community aside from being a diabolical collaborator.His exploits in recent weeks are savagely marked by fearless determination and selfish selflessness. His traits are envied by many. On the flipside, I haven't managed to pin down the elusive Raj Vasher.I was told by an anonymous source that Raj got wind of some rumor, chased off like a hound after the hare. In the interim, I brought Amaury Guerrero and Holly Paige aboard as senior advisers due to their Bashing expertise and superior wisdom.
The lessons learned from love aren't usually immediate. Time and proper analysis cut beneath the surface level sentiments and reveal the reasoning behind all failures and successes. Yearning searches for an end to satisfy a void, one that's felt mentally as well as physically, like the butterflies in the gut wanting to escape. Like I once told Ronda, "You know I always get what I want." I'm going to need a suitable First Lady.

Floyd Sanders for President!

2008-02-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

Fellow Americans,

I decided to use this forum to announce that I’m running for President of the United States of America. My supporters have been pushing me in this direction for a while, to which I took time to discus the prospect with my family and closest associates. I think the timing is right, and the possibilities for the future have never been brighter.

I believe I’m the most qualified candidate to overcome the nation’s toughest challenges and bring everyone underneath one tent. We need bold leadership guided by the right values and the right experience.

All of us know what those challenges are today - a war with no end, a dependence on foreign oil that threatens our future, schools where too many children aren't learning, and families struggling by living paycheck to paycheck despite working as hard as they can. We all know the challenges. We've felt them. We've talked about them for years.

Washington has turned into a land of massive bureaucracy. Deficits have exploded, entitlements are out of control; we can no longer afford the extravagance of our ever growing and intrusive government. The arbitrary power of government must be limited.

We need smart, pro-growth economic policies. We can reshape our economy to compete with the digital age. We have to respect free markets, private property and fair competition. As president I’ll raise the minimum wage, crack down on sexual offenders, cut taxes for working families and revitalize rural America. We need change and progress, now.

I’m going to push for new welfare reforms and rid the streets of crime. We have to fight poverty from the bottom up, and we have to lift those that can’t get by on their own. For many, the dream of home ownership has faded. I promise to balance the budget, because the risk of fiscal irresponsibility is devastating. And, of course, we shouldn’t be insecure about saving social security.

Education would be the centerpiece of my administration, because we’re only as good as what our future breeds. We’re lagging behind much of the world, but we shouldn’t. Schools need higher standards and the resources to succeed. Teachers need higher salaries and must be equipped to positively mold the minds of our children. Anyone who wants to attend college should be able to; it must be affordable.

I want this government to implement federalist ideals, because every problem doesn’t have a federal solution. Freedom is what makes our country great. We must restore habeas corpus because our personal liberties are being threatened. Civil liberties are guaranteed by The Constitution, and many of the cronies on Capitol Hill forget that. Every citizen’s rights must be protected equally, no matter what they believe or what they look like. We should be able to Bash in peace. Preservation of liberty was fundamental to the creation of this nation. That’s why I’m in this race, because as a freedom loving society we have the best chance to seek virtue, strive for excellence, and improve our economic well-being to achieve personal happiness.

We also have a fundamental responsibility to secure our borders against illegal immigration and enforce the laws we already have. We cannot consider ourselves a sovereign nation until the problem is fixed. With courage there can be unity, we can restore the sense of common purpose.

The next president has to stem the problem of rising health care costs, and the system needs to be overhauled. All children should have health care, because that is decent. We must become energized as Americans to find logical solutions. The endless debate and empty talk must end.

We need a revolution in communication, science and all medical fields. Every city in America should have broadband lines. We must return to being the most innovative country in the world.

We have to reduce emissions and reverse the effects of global warming. We must strive to achieve energy independence, increase efficiency standards, and we must finally kick our addiction to foreign oil. There are serious global issues, like the ignored genocide in Darfur. As for the divisive issue of abortion, you all know where I stand.

If I am your president, these are the goals I would seek.

Above all, I promise to be a man of the people because we are the people. We must demand more from our leaders. I believe the best way to solve these problems is to use common sense. The ways of Washington must change.

Special interests threaten to destroy the fabric by which this country is woven. Money and influence doesn’t run this country; we do. We have to throw away the politics of partisan bickering and overblown egos. Many of the people that run our lives are intellectually bankrupt, which undermines our inherent values and moral principles.

We were built on the ideals of fairness, and with your vote I promise to restore that. What we do together matters, and together we can accomplish extraordinary things.

This will be quite a journey, a perilous one of change, one that will make us great again. I look forward to continuing our conversation in the weeks and months to come.

There is hope for America.

Thank you and may God bless all of us.

-Floyd Sanders, American

Top 27 Albums of 2007

2008-01-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

2007 was an unexpectedly great year for music. This final list of the ten best is based on personal stereo play divided by enjoyment.

#1 M.I.A., Kala

#2 Feist, The Reminder

#3 Burial, Untrue
#4 The White Stripes, Icky Thump
#5 Tegan & Sara, The Con

#6 Northern State, Can I Keep This Pen?

#7 Jay-Z, American Gangster

#8 LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver

#9 Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings, 100 Days 100 Nights

#10 Pharoahe Monch, Desire

Honorable mentions:

-Aesop Rock, None Shall Pass
-Blonde Redhead, 23
-Bran Van 3000, Rose
-Bruce Springsteen, Magic
-Felix Da Housecat, Virgo Blakto & the Movie Disco
-Groove Armada, Soundboy Rock
-Interpol, Our Love to Admire
-Jens Lekman, Night Falls Over Kortedala
-Mark Ronson, Version
-Midnight Juggernauts, Dystopia
-Róisín Murphy, Overpowered
-Sia, Some People Have Real Problems
-The Budos Band, The Budos Band II
-The Field, From Here We Go Sublime
-The Go! Team, Proof of Youth
-The Quantic Soul Orchestra, Tropidelico
-Timbaland, Presents: Shock Value

The Canyon Salon Christmas Party

2007-12-18T11:02:00.000-08:00

My best friend Roxie invited me to the annual Canyon Salon Christmas Party over at Blue in picturesque Agoura Hills.
It was there where I was able to reflect on the art of dressing properly while balancing the ideals of impression and conversational virtuism. The forum of friendly females was spectacular.
I knew most of them already, from past Bash adventures to stories of relevance told by others. When you’re surrounded by welcome company and endearment reigns supreme, it means you can take a lot of photos and you can drink a lot of Captain Morgan and Cokes.
Bernadette Bender, Crystal and Dani Devlin had no problem mixing it up on the dance floor with all, probably because they're top-form Bashers. Prior to arriving I had already participated in a variety of events, some of which involved consumption on the scale of rampaging elephants. I had arrived more than ready, the light sprinkle of cologne masking the scent of rum and smoke. My disheveled hair from hat problem was solved in seconds by Roxie’s inventive styling methods. The results were impressive.
I’m usually equipped with insurmountable amounts of resilience towards temptation, a badge of courage I carry among the weak. Being led into the Den of Beauticians by female species often entails dabbling in the wonder of the vortex of sensory overload.
Aside from the head-spinning bouts of unbound attraction, which became uncontrollable in the tail end, everyone there was dazzling, accommodating, humorous, and above rest, fun. Nothing that could be described as catty appeared before my eyes, a revelation considering what I’ve seen in a primarily female work environment (when we were once outnumbered 32 to 4). From that interesting experience, my good friend The Doctor suggested I write a book called “Hell in the Pink Ghetto,” perhaps because I became an expert in the field after three years in it. But at The Canyon Salon, disparaging looks and snide remarks were notably absent from view. Love was in the air.
Maybe it’s hidden well. There was one aimless remark from a nameless source, especially since the comment had arisen late into the night. “That girl has zero, nothing at all. Did you try talking to her?” Then it broke out into whatever. It wasn’t in reference to Vicky Vale, who was happily in attendance, definite nominee for "Basher of the Year."
She also ended up winning company wide raffle, and it’s too bad she didn’t win me.
Sadly, nobody won first prize for the splits. One random guy, whose cleverness could certainly be questioned and scrutinized, decided to take it upon himself to entertain us before Hyper Crush’s performance with a painful looking rip. Some suspected, and justifiably so, that he must, somehow, have very little in the middle.
Or he’s incredibly flexible like very bendable acrobats. The worst kind of tools are the ones that strive too greatly in their quest to impress, yet they miscalculate something along the way, instead invoking negatively targeted insults among the minions. Some people are too easy to bag on, and this dude was asking for it. Holly Valentine and I had a field day of the marvel.
Hyper Crush put on another great performance, firmly staking claim as my favorite live act in Los Angeles.
Roxie's sister Rita was there with her fiancé Nick, a fine young chap whose love runs deep.
I’ll be at their wedding this Saturday, and it will also mark my debut as official wedding photographer. I like making people look good, even when they’re involved in some serious action. As an example, Rita and the lovely Jill always look good in photos.
One guy was trying to make some moves on Jill, but I could tell she was blowing off his amateur advances.
She certainly seemed a lot more at ease when Uncle Bob came around, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend valuable time. Although I would've relished the opportunity to rescue such a fine young lady, she was in good hands the moment Uncle Bob swooped in.
It was at this particular point I was unresponsive to any more alcohol. I had also been adorned with pantyhose over my neck, the owner of which remained a mystery to all, a sort of Sunday punch.
I garnered laughs for it, but eventually it was removed by Bernadette and tossed into fire. I also continued my penchant for walking into ladies restrooms on accident. A girl who was in there, witnessing me washing my hands after finishing, claimed that my "stupid" stunt deserved her a cold beverage on my tab. I agreed, but never gave her squat, instead scorning due to annoying voice and unflattering scent. My Bashers helped me ignore the broad, so our focus returned to Bashing. At this point, the showcase of debauchery began surfacing through many causes. Dani Devlin couldn't even keep her hands off this rock-solid beefcake!
She's irresistable, and quite frankly, I was getting a little bit jealous from the drink. My silence on the matter of pantyhose brought about the air of intrigue, that something had indeed happened, that it was better left unsaid. Plus a gentleman never tells, and that always remains; I was one in the beginning of the night and I left the same way.
There was also one glaring example of “what’s a nice girl like you doing with swine like that.” Lack of better judgment baffles, blinders on, unable to cognitively come up with better options. Some just don’t know any better. Then you have the couples that are innately made for each other. Their bond, from beginning to end, shines throughout and gives off a crazy energy. No questions are asked, what's given is what is. Those are everything.Aside from first hand experience regarding how good my hair always looks, The Canyon Salon is clearly a goldmine in Westlake Village, even the world. According to Roxie, "The visionary Sharon Perry is my hero!"

Rhino Horn and Other Myths

2007-12-06T01:55:00.000-08:00

I think the greatest mortal sin perpetuated upon a Basher is not being presented with a lime when ordering Captain Morgan and Coke at a bar. This is a perfect example of Captain Morgan and Coke presentation.

That was courtesy of a quiet bartender at The Penthouse over at The Huntley Hotel, a pretty place which overlooks the Santa Monica coastline. Hotel bartenders at nice hotels are 100% on serving the Captain Morgan and Coke correctly. Bonus was that the female Penthouse bartender was scantily clad, although in that atmosphere it definitely was not appropriate attire. My Bashers were dressed better.
I was a little jumpy that night, which reminded me of dog owners scolding their pet for jumping on visitors, although it is welcomed with The Colonel.

Master Chen once said, "It's good to be loving, but being loved comes a very close second." Everyone loved Patches, but he wasn't able to return it.

I was sad when he left for San Francisco from Lance's, and merely rumors of his existence have floated around since. It was also rumored that The Hat was in the vicinity, so he joined me for drinks with Devon Ahmad at Del's Saloon to further analytical thought.

Her dart skills, among the many talents she has innately mastered, are well beyond professional compared to the majority of the empire. She cleaned house again, putting my arguably sharp dart abilites into the gutter. All the quarters from the sack got cleaned out as well.
She doesn't miss marks. I like cool girls like her, the type that are genuinely friendly and fun. I think the reason some people are unfriendly is because others haven't been friendly to them, or they've been burned by trusting the wrong person or persons. Having good judgment in those matters can't be taken for granted, and when healthy, it will lead you precisely right. Believably, the worst are the ones making fun behind your back, the ones deserving of the most Venom.

Actually, sometimes the ones making fun are the truly friendly people, returning the favor of Bitchiness back. Nothing quite like entering a conversation where the other person figures you're jockeying an angle that doesn't exist. Idiots have vivid imaginations. Captive animals keep it so simple, requiring the kind of attention which equates to hours of amusement, as demonstrated by Lara toying with Luna (who happens to be male).

Even a donkey can entertain us. On occasion the Art of Bashing can become nearly fictional, when what you see disturbs with shifty humor later, but at the time reveals itself as pure debauchery. The ultimate myth of Bashing is that it's simply based in the world of partying. Factually, it's a sacred essence that engulfs you, only letting go when you're dreaming fast asleep, exploring. There was a night we went to L.A.X.I pointed naively towards a very awkward dancer in jest, to which Roxie replied, "There's no such thing as bad dancing, and if you aren't sweating, dance more."
So I was making my smooth moves as usual, we were wrecking the scene, I was having a great time. The pieces falling in place weren't predicted, in a good way. I decreed that new horizons would be shattered for splendor, and besides knowing the present, the future had already provided its own share of riches. Kings would be crowned, Queens would be made, the outer realms pillaged and plundered, gold for all. Then associated friend bottomed out hard from too much.The result was less than spectacular, throwing the unpredictable future into a very predictable one. A Basher lacking control of their thirsty liver ends up guttered.
Fitting, you see it again and again. It's the fine line of trying too hard, that you can outdrink jovial cohorts, that you can hang with iron tolerance alchies. Limits get blacked. It hurts most when close to home, when the not so lovely experience of being around abrupt rawness gets pushed right up in your face, the blunt conclusion trivial. Night is effectively destroyed, the lost hope becomes magnified to contempt. The only contradiction is that they probably get nominated for "Basher of the Year," for one incident alone can be worthy of the precious nod.

I needed a liberator for my disillusionment, someone to fix my rampantly scattered thoughts after the L.A.X. mess. Hours ago I asked Nikki Carmichael for her honest opinion, to which she curtly retorted, "Why care?"

Halloween Reset

2007-12-04T17:53:00.000-08:00

Because of global warming and a cruel libation shortage, Captain Excess had to emerge from out of retirement to do battle against ne'erdowell malcontents and perverse transients. My first skirmish was in the Matrix, gladly armed with only Smirnoff Green Apple Vodka pulls.
I surprisingly overcame insurmountable odds, coming away intact with a bit of poise and a bit of chutzpah. Hours later my energy levels were peaking from the scrumptious stylings of Hyper Crush, who once again battered my body into dance floor heaven. To remain low-key and off the radar, I adjusted my appearance to mimic common civilian wear.

I blended in with the crowd effortlessly at first. Holly Valentine looked gorgeous; she was doing something devilishly supernatural, lowering my normally symmetrical inhibitions, and it wasn't the plentiful booze I'd consumed on the way over, but it easily could've been the sweet scent of Holly's flawless skin.

I had my two molls along for extra added protection, figuring my measly shank wouldn't be enough juice to survive the night.

I was blatantly assailed on the dance floor for being recognized as the towering Floyd Sanders, so Roxie took care of him, rubbed him out brutally.

He didn't stay dead for long and became a zombie, but he chilled the Hell out. The focus returned to the music and Donny Fontaine, seminal member of Hyper Crush. He kept the crowd moving with his crafty lyrics on dope beats.

He tore the place to shreds with wicked rhyme flow. Their party anthem "Sex and Drugs" has secured a nomination for song of the year '07. I think we all agreed that future celebrities were performing right under our noses. That called for more Bashing.

I was feeling lucky and blessed, knowing that the Way of the Bash was guiding my every move and overseeing important actions in an objective light. All this, of course, was remedied by the grim mistake of coming across The Detonator.

He was rather snappy, animated, and was speaking with a strangely constructed Cuban accent. My good friend Omar Suarez would've appreciated the stuff he had in pocket. It was then, without warning, that I transformed into the heathen of heathens, the master of disaster, ferocious and frenzied with a pure dose of carnal voltage!

With the untimely exit of Holly, her casted spell sadly wearing off, the burning appearance of Taylor instantly threw me into a lavishly welcomed relapse.

I could feel a sudden surge in my hot-blooded psyche, launching my once coherent thoughts into the proverbial tailspin of scattershot dreams and morbid foolishness. While luxuriating in her presence for a time, I neglected to notice her dog wasn't very appreciative of my big oogly eyes. The dog mauling arrived without an overt signal.

I came away from combat emotionally and physically scarred, knowing that it wouldn't take weeks, it would instead take months to recover properly from coming too close to an intense sort of majesty. I crawled, badly beaten and bloodied, to the feet of the mythical Strawberry Shortcake.

I refuse to beg for anything, but she was sincerely concerned for my well-being, so she pulled out the robust antidote and handed it over.

Minutes later I was back to normal, somewhat drained from the experience, but I needed to find glory forthwith, for the limits of my power slowly begun to surface to the delight of my enemies and foes. To help bring back my rampage, my trusted comrade Devon Ahmad was able to down an entire bottle of Merlot on command.

As I applied the sparkle of my mighty "Trickle-Down Drinking" voodoo, Devon began telling everyone to "Bash or be Bashed," the result being countless ingestions of various intoxicants by awestruck humans. The effect was overwhelming, the targets were duly blasted.

Willful subservience via Bashing is something I look up to, but it's also superior when done responsibly. I was pleased Peacock was around to assist with regulation, and she diligently followed my earlier advice. Over breakfast I told her that Halloween could become an all out war of dramatic proportions.

Some Jedi guy tried to be cool, pulling out his lightsaber haphazardly, surely intent on showing the world that his tepid tricks and marginal swordplay could dominate a place localized by Captain Excess and his minions. Peacock scoffed at his ill-timed drunken mistep.

She worked him over worse than the movingly crippled Fallen Angel.

To fuel further insult to injury, I summoned Ridge Thornway from vacation to engage in his favorite activity: causing bodily dismemberment and mayhem.

Ridge BBQ'd Jedi in special sauce. I declined the taste, as would most rational people. The only other hint of trouble came from Tina Turner of Thunderdome fame, seen here with a thugged out Raj Vasher.

He faced the wheel and won amputation, a much better prize than the reviled "gulag." The highlight, courtesy of Taylor, was forcefully gaining a sponsorship from Radioactive Energy Drink for successfully Bashing others into drunken lushes, a point of personal worth among those in the know.

Being equipped with an endless supply of Radioactive, along with a case of Smirnoff and a black light, I'll certainly be able to infiltrate hallowed lands with the vigor and confidence of a True Basher. I will win.

To quote The Ronda, "My favorite part of Halloween is that girls usually dress up as Slutty [fill in the blank]."

An Example of High Quality Bashing

2007-11-26T15:41:00.000-08:00

The Christmas season has officially begun and was perfectly demonstrated by this current living room spread.
After surveying the scene and boldly quaffing numerous liquids, we all hopped into a dangerously driven cab bound for Cha Cha Lounge, a place of previous crimes and misdemeanors, where accidents happen and regrets are hard to come by.
Exploring the outer reaches of the Los Feliz area are beneficial to somebody used to the Westside. The lifestyles can be contrasted sharply, but each has benefits as well as drawbacks. Sexiness is never a drawback, the main reason I relent from the sadly common norm of remaining in a bubble, never going anywhere past 2 miles. Bubbles are boring, and so are a lot of people, so I select my company carefully.
As usual, to assist with maintaining Bash balance and order, The Detonator came armed with passionate daring and Willie Nelson.
In true form that's naturally exuded, staying in style and focusing on the fray was the first and only option in play. Aside from prodigious finesse, The Detonator's art often imitates reality. Everything progressed nicely after entering Cha Cha Lounge and the evening never seemed to peak out.
But before that we briefly waited outside the bar, one that was apparently overcrowded and drawing the ire of local fire authorities, yet the line moved quickly after the once stoic doormen noticed attractive ladies in the back of the line. With that factor competing, it’s good to be part of the group. We briefly spoke to Mike Piazza who was loitering in front of us.
Mike concurred that he, as well as the 30 men in front of us, were very lucky. The line moved deceptively fast, and we were in within minutes to begin causing irreparable liver damage with cheers and laughter.
This particular evening also gave me a chance to showcase the medal I won from running in the Disneyland Half Marathon in Anaheim, a feat that many joyously complemented me on.
I was a winner that day! I was also genuinely stoked when handed red cup, a sign that the bar had been tapped on glassware, probably the result of sneaky bastards stealing while influenced by a drunken daze. Too much fun though, the kind that lingers, like the faint scent of sweet Champagne I shared with the lovely ladies before embarking in the crazy cab, it still comes across my senses. Nights like that, in retrospect, can fulfill your most beautiful dreams of magic. I prompty passed out at 5am.
Then you have to go home, or in my case, you go straight from a comfy couch and unparalleled warmth to Mo’s in Playa Del Rey. Nothing beats watching football and having the greatest taco salad in the entire world or the contagiously yummy popcorn shrimp with house sauce. Plus Mo is always there to tell the best jokes.
After a rare Raiders victory and the best fish 'n' chips ever, I happily engaged Peacock at Sports Harbour to continue some incomprehensible debauchery on an already heavenly Sunday.
It didn't take long for my boldily pains to go away.

Superhero Bash By Mantooth, Rampart

2007-10-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

Mantooth stepped up again with his annual superhero theme party.
The full name of the party was “The Rampart League of Earth Justice in Space Super Hero Costume Party.”
The genius of his crazy creations isn’t bound by any rules that tend to govern the full spectrum of emerging Bashes. Convention need not apply. Mantooth was the The Inseminator, unbent sexuality in supervillain form, adorned with his utility belt containing all sorts of sordid paraphernalia to assist in his quest of inseminating nations far and wide.
I came into fray as Captain Excess, representing the darker side of the hero universe with quick consuming abilities and the power to cause riots by mentally-forcing weak minds to party.
My girl The Pillar, a member of The Inner Circle, is immune to the evocative telekinesis I possess, and my shiny armor deflects her most powerful attack, so we’re two peas in a pod. The assembly was glorious! One of the first villains I came across was Fuck Face, and he affectionately obliged in drinking more.
I immediately figured him as a worthy ally rather than foe. Fuck Face was unstoppable in his pillage, eating someone’s relative without wavering.
But he declined my offer to join The Inner Circle, instead opting to stick with his original partner-in-crime, the incomparable Supervagina.
Then our greatest fears were met with a blindsided blow of the wind; it was Smelly Man riding in on his glide-powered motorbike!
Boo-Yah! I challenged him to drink as others began clearing the way from his pungent scent of extreme death. The onlookers were eagerly waiting for Smelly Man to loosen up.
Our attentions turned lethal when Dazzler floated down the stairways, lifting everyone’s spirits with colors and stars, and even the evildoers couldn’t resist her aura.
I noticed Robin wanting to step up, so I verbally dished a booze whammy on his psyche. He mellowed and remained still.
Before I could properly embellish myself in the newly forged kingdom, all of a sudden, an eerie calmness overtook the swelling crowd, which could’ve only meant one thing . . .
The Cat Napper! He forced me to look in his bag, shoved it into my face, and I passed out for 20 minutes.
When I awakened, Raj Vasher was standing above me, shaking his head saying, “You should’ve never fallen for The Cat Napper’s salacious trappings.”
Raj Vasher was Beer Man, equipped with 12 different methods to open anything alcoholic.
His acquired abilities also assisted in staying heterosexual.
I was definitely promoting overkill on the feeble superheroes to drink, to Bash with me, to overthrow their senses with the aura of Captain Excess.
We also had Special Sauce, who was in from Little Italy to represent all the sauciers in the world.
His primary superhero power was saucing.
Another captain, Captain Armenia, shielded my egging on to drink more.Then a hungered wolf drooling heavy made his way through searching for prey to feed the insatiable hunger brought on by full moon.
Ta-Dow! I rapidly realized that Comedy Carhole was represented by my distinguished attorney Collin, the sheep in wolf’s clothing.
We spoke of possible quandaries in law, and then he went back in to plunder.
Indiana Jones arrived with the always seductive Cat Woman, and she was playing tricks on all the male minds. Luckily, Indy sees through that garbage.
Quite a duo, and I quickly noticed who led the charge of that combo.
Terrence and Philip came in female form, and their gaseous tidings warded me off.
Lance made a late night appearance off-the-heals of a competitive game of soccer, a victory. He was Henchman #2.
I thought I’d be able to recruit him for my world domination efforts, but I inadvertently got him to Bash.
As a surprise to no one, Earl dropped in with bombs a falling.
Earl would swill, drop pointed insults while accurately Bashing, then hide behind Lex Luthor’s invisible shield.
Earl was also apparently quite the womanizer, and The Basher was in awe for once.
Why wouldn’t Earl be infatuated with Wonder Woman? Who wasn't . .
And then, like clockwork, Earl teamed up with Beer Man to astound you.
Aside from the major group meeting, I discovered that some Justice League plotting was going on behind the scenes.
It was then that the mysterious Cloak came in to stoke malicious deeds, his powers clearly undefined, but he’s been known to wallop fright into the hearts of prospective opponents.
The Cloak moved in on the courageous Pillar, who justly attacked back using the wickedly dynamic luminous-mind attack with the veracity of a fearless charmer warding off eminent evil easy, chopping his brain in quarters.
After that quick and entertaining display of destruction, I gave this one hero a taste of my quenching fruit juice. She began her attempts to regain the power to fly, but without any success due to the suggestive powers of Captain Excess.
When the sky could no longer welcome her with open arms, I convinced her that I was the key for her to regain any superpowers.
At that point, I realized Captain Excess was a bona fide Supervillain. Awards were given out around midnight based on votes from all attendees. The Inseminator, The Cat Napper and Dazzler were exempt from candidacy because they were humbly hosting.
The four awards were for Best Superhero and Best Supervillain (based on existing character), along with Best Superhero and Supervillain created by a guest.
I vaguely remember voting for Captain Armenia because I couldn’t vote for The Inseminator. The Captain brought his block celly.
I exceeded. The Pillar provided shimmering incandescence for the sake of extravagance, lighting up the venue and succeeding on all levels.
The Cat Napper became bitter because he needed sleep, and the booze I stealthily provided him from vengeance obviously weakened his commonly effective superpowers. The fire of Rabbit Spinner proves my merit.
Suffice to say, Captain Excess has officially been retired. A side cannot be taken, the good or the evil.
To think Halloween is around the corner, what oh what might I be? At this rate, probably a zombie after listening to The Cranberries.

Hollywood Forever Cemetery and "The Exorcist"

2007-10-11T14:18:00.001-07:00

We went to a cemetery, which is a place of rest, to watch “The Exorcist” outdoors with around a thousand people.
It was all Holly Valentine’s dangerous idea.
She promised a comforting shield from spooks and wraiths of the underworld.
So we ran through the gates, charging furiously over hallowed ground on such a momentous evening of evil, one filled with inner demons being excised while feeling the spirits of afterlife clashing against our bare flesh.
We luckily found a great spot to post-up.
I never realized the trance-like state I entered before the film even began; a shadow of dread brought out by ominous anticipation covered my soul.
Surely, something strong was rushing through my deep red blood, probably brought about by the Smirnoff green apple vodka we were drinking.
One of our friends feared the dark, and knowing dusk was leading into night put forth a panicky mood among our group, as if the gates of the cemetery were going to hold us in, never loosening its grip.
The fiery scent of Hades was transparent. It certainly got a hold of Roxie during our exploratory walk, and she attempted to shake it loose.
For a few moments the manifestation formed into spontaneous shrieking, almost like the wailing of a banshee fulfilling the omen of death.
At our picnic sanctuary she returned to becoming the Roxie we all know and love.
While roaming the mythical grounds, the richness of its historical value was evident.
Rudolph Valentino and Paul Muni are buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, which also boasts the grave of Jayne Mansfield and Darla Hood’s crypt. My favorite resident would have to be Cecil B. DeMille.
The highlight of a night surrounded by endless rows of tombs and mausoleums was finally meeting Roxie’s famous sister Rita, a brilliant fashion designer.
She truly Bashed me into submission by forcing alcohol upon me in shot form. We all became possessed by the strength of the chilling specters, the pressure unwittingly weighing us down into a lightheaded state of elation and nervous laughter.
The only person who kept soothingly calm the entire night was Holly.
Not sure if the devil feels comfortable in a cemetery, but something sinister was amiss.
From what I witnessed, the dead don’t talk when dancing with ghosts.

Renaissance Faire

2007-10-09T09:33:00.000-07:00

To try describing the Ren Faire with words is impossible, so I won't.

Hoff sighting!

Vicky Vale

2007-10-08T00:10:00.001-07:00

It should start from somewhere, probably from the heart when you’re a Basher, because otherwise, talk is very cheap.
She graces my presence with fascination, from Chili Cook-Off action to my backyard. I hold my speechless eyes passionately without conscience, emotion solidly in place but distracted.
And then I ask, is that something that should be, because forcing an outcome from desire rarely reaps fruit? Not as though I’m troubled by the unpaved road, more so the thought of grandeur pervades rational optimism with pitfalls. Bernadette agrees.
There’s been others thought as Queen, but true actuality seems far away yet crucial to being.
Questing isn’t logical when you honestly have nothing on paper. But hope always has a place.

Bash of the Year?

2007-08-13T23:54:00.000-07:00

A bizarre text message from The Detonator led me into the Hollywood Hills for what could be classified as a certain nominee for “Bash of the Year.”

The party was packed, featuring every vice imaginable or not, with the sort of abundance at hand that would make a doe-eyed rookie cringe in terror.
The Detonator also receives credit for bringing along Suzy, a vivacious free spirit who laughs in the face of fear, a rad girl by all accounts.
According to legend, wearing the hat of The Detonator brings about some sort of mystically magical power, especially in those who possess limitless intangibles. That’s probably why he’s the Tom Hanks of the “Basher of the Year” competition.
Carolla, standing on the left, has been known to throw ridiculously orchestrated Bashes of insane magnitude, and this was no different.
Tremors are commonly felt days after. My new friend Spike vouched for that.
So did a buffoon named Anthony . . .

The list of characters was endless. To my most pleasant surprise, Gloria bafflingly surfaced sharking her way through novice opponents at the pool table for loose cash.
She adorably had her gentle cousin Jesse in town from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
He progressively became friendlier and more open with each drink, reminiscing about the last big fish he caught, then claiming he’d never seen anything like this in his life.
Gloria’s skills on the pool table certainly rival that of Devon Ahmad, a battle for the ages I’d love to see, a tough one to wager on.
Her charisma during games can throw off the most competitive pool players, leaving their judgments up for second guessing and their confidence dwindled by trick shots from the end of Gloria’s cue.
I might have to make a showdown happen, if not for Posterity’s sake, strictly for the sake of humanity at large.
Meanwhile, inflatable balls in the pool became renegade weapons, often landing on heads or being the cause of distressing alcohol spillage.
Later, I stumbled upon my favorite DJ after Lance Cannon, Eric Mandini, who earned my respect in The Foundation Room for playing "Hoochie Mama."
Him and Lance are buddies, and I’d seen him before at Concorde and another time at a Labor Day soirée. It didn't stop there, acquaintances kept coming. Rex and his girl remebered me from another reckless occasion and greeted me with open arms.
He knows Eric as well, but at this Bash, the obvious focal point was DJ Scribble at the helm, above the pool pumping out jam after jam. At one point I received a shout out for the props I was dropping; there was no stopping him.
He’s a true master of turntablism, and doing damage on the block is definitely in his job description. I had a hard time standing still with the perfection of the mixes tickling my eardrums. Besides the unbelievable skills at work, the flow of the 12 kegs intricately enhanced the booming beats. We were all on cloud nine.
Meeting people is easy when the party-goers are comfortable in their own skin. I was a big fan of Red, whose sharp and tacitly pointed humor placed her up on the pedestal of greatness with the immediacy of an inflamed appendix removal. I think it was at this point I realized my drunken endeavors would be guided by pure instinct instead of contemplated rationalizations.
I forgot her name moments after the reveal, neglecting to attain proper information for future adventure possibilities. The same goes for these two lovely girls I was chatting up.
I randomly bumped into Terry from Chatsworth, a girl I hadn’t seen in nearly five years. At this point I’d reached my limit on random bump-ins. Does everyone know Carolla?
The Detonator was cold lampin, and he did a few beer bongs for the sake of Bashing.
The Detonator, for all intents and purposes, isn’t hindered by the appearance of alcohol distribution devices.
Later that night, around 2am, with the help of The Detonator, I was truly the Burrito King.
To sum up the affair, they were all Bashers.